Samuel Wright and the Theory of Magical Knowledge
by michaelyasspro
Summary: Completely AU, Harry never exists and has never existed, James and Lily never have a kid, Tom is currently in Albania and never became Voldemort, no Wizarding War. Hope you guys enjoy it! K : May include deaths and painful stuff
1. A Messenger in the Night

AN: First time trying this out, hope it works. **In this continuity, Harry and Voldemort NEVER EXIST. Lily & James never have a son or die, Tom never enrolls in Hogwarts and is somewhere in Albania, no First Wizarding War. **Everyone else stays the same.

Rubeus Hagrid walked alone, head down, along the dark street, his footsteps echoing along the old, worn path. All of the houses, of course, were silent, their lights turned off. The street lamps would have bothered him, but he made sure to borrow the old Deluminator before he went out- Click. A the night became dark.

He pulled out a rough, worn letter from one of his multiple pockets and glanced at the name: S. Wright. Not too bad, as names went. He could vaguely recall something about a plane, or summat like that- Another muggleborn, of course. He sat down on the doorstep of No.10, Privet Drive and waited. To his immense surprise, a light was still on in the top floor, somewhere the Deluminator couldn't have reached. In a panic, he leapt up and click the Deluminator again- a very bad decision indeed, as it released most of the contained light, making the dark street flooded with the light of the newly restored street lamps. He could hear mutterings across the lane, and (this was the scary bit) the sound of footsteps could be heard coming to the door. He struggled to find his old Muggle-Repellent charm (35 sickles for one in Daigon Alley) but it was already too late. A young boy's face peeked out of the doorway.

"Ah... how'm I supposed ta say this. What's yer name, boy?"

"Sam... Samuel. Smauel Wright." The young boy was quivering in his slippers.

"Well, er, Sam, yeh're a wizard-"

But the boy had already fainted.

Samuel awoke to a large giant of a man holding what appeared to be a pink umbrella pointing at him. "Shh..." The man was whispering, or at least he thought he was. His voice was booming, really. "Sam... yeh awake?"

"I think."

"Lovely. Glad teh see I can still do me old tricks. Wasn' sure the rennervate'd come out righ'." He retracted his pink umbrella, tucking it into his enormous jacket.

"Wh... Wh... Who are you?"

"The name's Hagrid. Sorry for the, ah, rough introduction. Didn' know yeh were still awake."

"Why are we talking in a patch of bushes?"

"Well, I, um, didn' wanna wake the muggles, yeh know. The Ministry lot would've a field day if someone got a picture o' meself"

"Muggles? The Ministry? Are you some kind of government operative? I swear, I only published that paper about government for fun-"

"Shut up, yeh givin' me a headache. Never met 'un who talked this much since... who was that? Granger. 'Course I ain't with the Ministry o' Magic. How'd I break it to yeh... Sam, this place ain't what you think it be. There's an entire secret group o' wizards in Britain, a magical society made outta people who know magic. Yeh're one of them, Sam. A wizard. I've come here teh invite you to a school."

"A school? A school for magic, you mean? Just like those fairy tales and wizards and witches and dragons?" Sam's face was open in disbelieving shock.

"Yeah. The school's called Hogwarts, headmaster's Dumbledore, one o' teh bes' schools in Britain, all that stuff."

"Give me three reasons why I should believe you."

The giant's forehead frowned alongside his mouth. "I really should'n do this, but hold yeh knickers." Whipping out his pink umbrella once more, he pointed it at a small stone and sad, concentrating hard, "Wingardium Leviosa."

The stone twitched, shivered, and _rose into the air._ Sam was shocked.

"Th... that... how'd you do that? Wait... Is this some kind of magic trick?"

It wasn't.

"So, tell me. How do I become it wizard? Is the price of being a wizard holding a pink umbrella all the time?"

And here Hagrid's face turned a delicate shade of red. "Well, ah, most'a yeh lot use wands, but, yeh see, I, um, had a bit of a... whatd' ya call it... an accident wih mine. So I just-"

"Keep it hidden inside the umbrella. Cool. I read about this guy who did it once. Now, how do you plan on explaining this to my parents? You obviously didn't plan on showing them magic- do most people just roll with it?"

"Well, ah, most o' the time, meself showin' up's enough for most folk-" Hagrid stopped all of a sudden, and Sam could see why.

"What in the name of Woden are you doing to my son?" (His parents were ardent supporters of Norse religion)

-Interlude-

 **AN:** All references- A Cartoon Guide to Physics, A Brief History of Time, The Catcher in the Rye, 1984, and On the Mountains of Madness (Lovecraft, not the feeling you get when reading bad fanfiction)

Sam had never understood the term "quivering with astonishment", but he could see that his parents certainly fit the bill. They had not taken Hagrid showing up very well. His mother was sipping on a strong, sweet cup of tea with two cubes of sugar- her favourite naturally, since she had gone on a sugar-free diet only two weeks ago. His father remained silent, but his face, cheeks alight with a certain red colour that suggested a burning tank of motor petrol told the story well enough.

"Tell me one reason why we shouldn't call the police right now."

"Show him, Hagrid."

A few minutes later, they were perfectly willing to authorise him to go to "that Hogwarts". As a sign of goodwill, they even offered to show "Mr. Hagrid" Sam's room. He, naturally, had the normal reaction.

"Don't yeh thinks that's a bit much, lad?"

The room was filled, top to bottom, with _books_. Everywhere. And all types of books too. There was "The Pulp Guide to Physics", "An Extended History of Time", "The Goalie in the Wheat", "1985", and a quaint book called "On the Flatlands of Calmness". It wasn't even limited to English books. Sam had a proud shelf devoted to books with such exotic languages as Chinese, Japanese, and (he believed) one authentic Klingon Dictionary. The lone remaining shelf was filled with lego pieces and models of varying complexity.

"Yeah, Hagrid, I sort of... like books."

" _Like_ mighta be too soft a word, Sam. Mesself, I jus' hope yeh don't try teh bring 'em all."

"Don't worry sir, I promise I'll try."

Hagrid, naturally, in the long-honoured tradition of muggleborn inception, pulled an all-nighter. Sam's parents, after all, were what you might call... "anxious". Sam himself sat quietly in a corner of his own room, reading The Negotiation Field book as nervous, tense chattering fills the halls. Someday, someone would write a book about this, he was sure. But for now, he would settle for some tense thinking.

Magic existed! MAGIC. EXISTED. He had spent his entire life learning about science and how nature wouldn't over backwards to accommodate their wishes, how matter was conserved along with energy, but of course when you throw something as complex as magic into the mix, what you were really doing was telling the laws of physics to bugger off- one of the spells defied gravity. There was a kind of giant-spaghetti-horror that he was feeling, which one was entitled to feel when all existing obligations had been fulfilled, you walked the dog, and you realise that everything you've been taught was false.

He st down onto his small bed, looking at his science shelf. Perhaps he would throw it away, or at least rename it "Outdated Theories". Surely someone should call the UN? There would certainly be many people who would find this utterly fascinating, and probably very profitable as well. His brain, once it got past the whole existential doubt problem, was getting fired up for the first time in years. What were the new rules then, if any? What could you do in a world where the limit could quite likely be your own imagination? Could there be a spell to fix everything? If so, what were the parameters?

Hagrid would return to find a sleeping Samuel Wright.

"Sleep tight, lad. Tomorrow, we gotta get yeh schoolbooks."

"SCHOOLBOOKS?!"


	2. Visit to Diagon Alley

Hagrid squirmed uncomfortably on the tiny Tube seat, the passers-by grimacing slightly as they tried their best to ignore his massive physique. Samuel, who was sitting beside him (and feeling quite squashed) privately wondered if they could simply teleport and make the whole thing a lot easier, but as he shot a glance at the giants face (which resembled a tightly clenched fist), he thought wisely that if Hagrid knew one such spell, he'd probably have done it several ages ago.

Hagrid wandered through the streets of London, dragging Samuel along. Every now and then he'd point at something and grunt, prompting Samuel to explain to him what it was. All of a sudden, however, he stopped in front of a dingy pub, squashed between two shops that normal people didn't seem to be noticing. "Here's where we get yeh stuff, lad. The Leaky Cauldron."

Samuel suddenly had a moment of terrible inspiration- could this all be a ploy to get him into a pub? His mind quickly put the matter to rest, but at the same time, there was something inherently ludicrous about the way the large, bulky (presumed) alcoholic gestured to the pub with a hint of grandeur- as if innumerable secrets hid inside. His shock was further compounded by Hagrid going right through the pub instead of staying inside, only pausing to nod curtly to the barkeep. A thin, shaken man with a large turban twitched at one end, but didn't stir.

They were now in the yard behind the pub, facing a delightfully blank brick wall. "Hagrid... ?"

"Hold on a second, lad. I havn' got the bes' memory, but yeh lot are really givin' me a headache. Let's see, how did it go..."

He began tapping out a random sequence on the brick wall. Left-right-up-left... Samuel frowned as he tried to remember the sequence. This would presumably be performed with a wand, but then comes the issue of bacteria on your wand... if you were a muggle and knew the sequence then, would the wall allow you to tap it out? Naturally, there would be some kind of anti-muggle security, and he had already seen how muggle tourists swept their eyes from the shop on one side to the other, but if you forcefully dragged a muggle inside, certainly this would only be an optical illusion, unless there was some kind of magical barrier in which case... but enough theorising- a hole had appeared in the wall, leading to one of the most curious streets that he had ever seen.

"Welcome to Daigon Alley... er... whatsyername?"

"Samuel." Seriously, if he forgot anymore times, Samuel would begin doubt his ability to fix a lightbulb- but then again, he was a magician so... he need for lightbulbs probably wasn't that great either. For now, however, the street attracted him the most. The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons of all shapes and sizes. "Yeah, you'll be needin' one soon." Hagrid grunted, steering Sam past the glistening tower of pots. It was when he heard a woman's lambaste, "-Another twenty galleons! Ron, you're probably better off without it. C'mon, Ginny-" that he realised that he had a problem.

"Hagrid, where do I get my money?"

Hagrid fumbled around for a bit, retrieving a bulging purse. "Hogwarts' got a fund for people like yeh who don' have wizardin' money, but it ain' a lot, so yeh probably won' get any new books." He pressed a large gold coin into Sam's hand. "This is a galleon. Gives yeh seventeen sickles." He produced a silver coin, dropping the gold one. "Tha's a sickle. Gives... twenty nine knuts" Sam picked it up for him. "And this-" He rummaged around again for a bit, scattering coins onto the floor which Sam raced to pick up "-Is a knut. Twenty-nine Knuts to a sickle, seventeen sickles to a galleon, it's easy enough." "Twenty nine knuts to a sickle, seventeen sickles to a galleon." Sam repeated. "That's twenty nine times seventeen which is four hundred and ninety-three knuts to a galleon! Who uses knuts anyways? They're worse than pennies! Who made this system?"

"Aren't you a mouthful. Goblins make 'em, of course."

"I don't suppose this is some international standard, given that whoever made this up has less sense than a five year old... unless these are exchange rates?"

"Wha'?" Hagrid' was obviously bemused.

"Does Scotland have it's own magical currency? And Wales? Or maybe even Ireland?"

"Nah... they all use the system, lad."

"But then why... all of these are local currencies?"

"Yeah."

"But why would the goblins make some nonsensical money... do you ever buy anything in knuts?"

"Mostly the mail. Daily Prophet an' all that."

"I suppose it could be a service medium currency... a different standard. Huh. I'll have to look into that. Do the goblins have a bank near here?"

"Gringotts. Now don't talk ter me anymore, yeh givin' me a migraine. Here's yeh list o' school items- have fun, I've gotta go fer a pickme-up a' the Leaky Cauldron. Don' go down dark alleys, don' try to haggle, don' buy anythin' that looks like a Malfoy, an' yeh should be fine." With that, he lumbered down the street, humming to himself.

As far as storybook giant lummoxes went, Sam thought, he wasn't half bad. But now, onto business. He unfolded the list of required items, weighing his purse even as it clinked noisily. "robes, hats (classic), gloves, cloaks (typical magicians), books(ooh, should check those out), wand, cauldron(ah), glass or crystal phials, telescope (collapsible?), brass scales (interesting)." In normal situations he'd head for the bookstore first, but his interest was drawn towards a wand. Finally, an instrument of magic! (He briefly wondered whether it came with an umbrella for safekeeping.)

Sam pushed his head into the dark, narrow, and shabby shop as a bell tinkled- Ollivander's: Maker of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Sam sincerely hoped it was a legacy business- He had no interest in meeting a several-thousand year old man, much less buy his wands. That would be... scary. He shot a glance a the faded pillow next to the window, with a single wand sitting on it. When he'd asked around for a "wand shop", everyone had pointed here, so perhaps there was something to be seen, eh? The shop was empty but for one single, faded chair which (he assumed) customers sat on to wait, there didn't seem to be anything else of interest for him, except for piling towers of... wand cases? The whole place had a strange quality to it, like one of those libraries where they never said don't talk but you didn't talk all the same. Failing to contain his curiosity, Sam reached out and touched a case, opening it quietly. It contained a-

"Hello, young man." Sam jumped. Loudly. Dust scattered across the room, giving him a coughing fit. A little man was standing in front of him, looking very, very old indeed. His eyes shined, a pale shine, as if it were a flickering oil lamp. His arms seemed to chronically twitch every now and then, but his gaze was as steady as ever. "I hope you weren't trying to steal that." Sam frantically placed to box back into the pile, praying that it didn't break. "Uh... Hello." Sam was stammering by now.

"I would say I was expecting you, but I don't know your name yet."

"I... I'm Sam."

"Hello, Samuel Wright. My name is Mr. Ollivander."

"How... how do you know my full name?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Come on, this is some text RPG denial dialogue here."

"Mr. Wright, if we are to conduct business, I hope to treat you seriously, and you the same to me." There was a hint of a twinkle in his eye, and Sam had a sinking feeling that the man, though frail, wasn't to be trifled with. His feet began to squirm, and he looked for something to say.

"Alright, then. I suppose I'm looking for a wand?"

"Good." Mr. Ollivander pointed at a chair. "Sit down." He pointed stiffly to the only chair in the room, pulling a a long tape measure. "Tell me, which is your wand arm?"

"Well, I'm two handed, really, so I don't know whether you mean what I prefer or-"

"Your preference, please."

"I'm... right-handed, then."

Mr. Ollivander stepped close to Sam, so close that their noses almost touched. He could see his dim reflection in Mr. Ollivander's pupils, and he could see that it didn't look pretty. Out of reflex, he tried to ruffle his hair, but a severe glance from Mr. Ollivander stopped him- "Be still, boy." It seemed to say. After a few measurements, however, Sam quickly realised that the tape measure was doing all the work, and Mr. Ollivander himself was nowhere to be found. A voice trailed out from somewhere inside the shop. "Every Ollivander wand has the core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Wright. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. (Sam reminded himself to never underestimate Mr. I-use-the-heartstrings-of-dragons Ollivander again) No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

As if he had been planning this all along (which he could have been), Ollivander walked out behind a nearby stack of wands, his hands brandishing a wand case. In one smooth motion he slid off the wand case, handing him a wand. "Blackthorn and Unicorn Hair. Quite whippy," he said. "Try it. Just take it and give it a wave, don't be shy."

Nothing. Sam felt quite foolish after waving it around for what felt like ten seconds, but Mr. Ollivander had snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

Ollivander didn't seem to be discouraged in the slightest. "Try this one! Cherry wood and dragon heartstring. Nice and supple"

Still nothing.

An odd fire seemed to have come into Mr. Ollivander's eyes, even as he rushed out wand after wand.

After around thirty wands, he declared Sam "Tricky".

After fourty he started moving out the rarer stock.

"Holly and Phoenix feather," he murmured. "Try this."

Nothing. He groaned lightly.

It wasn't until the seventy-sixth (or seventy-seventh?) wand that he finally got a reaction. Ollivander seemed to find it extremely amusing, however, that the dogwood wand had deigned to stick him to the ceiling while he flung it around- apparently this was normal for a "fun-loving" wand. He assured Sam that great things lay in store for him, and that wands like these liked to choose owners with... flair. Sam himself, however, wasn't quite so sure. When he held the wand in his hand, it felt... wrong, somehow, as if the wand itself wasn't sure of what to make of him. He gently set it down and asked Ollivander, "May I try another wand, please?"

Ollivander, who looked as though he had already been about to get up, looked back.

"What?"

"I want to try another one. Or two. Don't wizards do that? I mean, you wouldn't just drive the first car that worked for you, right? Can't I choose-"

"No! You are ignorant, Mr. Wright. The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around. Wands are delicate things. If you abandon this in search for another, why, you may not find a pair, and risk losing this wand's allegiance altogether."

"I... I just got a feeling- like it didn't really know what to do with me. I... I'm sure it won't mind." Sam himself felt slightly absurd referring to the wand as "it", but that was probably the right thing to do.

"Hmm... I suppose we can try that."

Thirty wands later, Sam was going to try his luck with the dogwood wand when Ollivander produced another wand.

"Nice tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find you another match somewhere... I wonder- I wouldn't think- Why not, eh? Here-Walnut and Phoenix feather. Hard and unyielding. Go on, try it out."*

When Sam held it for the first time, he felt something he had never felt from a wand before... scepticism. The wand seemed to say, "I'm not impressed." He felt rather taken aback for a second, and then quietly pointed his wand at the floor. _Sparkle_ , he thought quietly. _Please give me some sparkle. Something... Please... Tell me I'm not wrong..._ The wand was silent for a while.

 **Then, with a resounding bang, a stream of blue and silver sparks shot at the floor with such ferocity that Samuel was forced down onto the chair, his mouth open in shock.**

"Bravo! Yes, yes, very good. Walnut... I should have known..." said Mr. Ollivander wisely, standing up from his stool (from which he had seem summoning wand-cases).

"Sorry to intrude," said Sam, "But you should have known what?"

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Wright. In all of my years, not one wizard has ever tried another wand to see if it yields better effects. Walnut wands are suited to the highly intelligent, Mr. Wright. Once they are chosen, however, they act unflinchingly on their master's orders, as you have no doubt seen. They are, therefore, extremely powerful in those whose conscience is... stunted."

"You don't mean... I'm not a dark wizard!"

"No, I meant merely that perhaps I should expect great things from you, Mr. Wright. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... It is, indeed, curious how these things happen. Well, Mr. Wright, I think we've found a match, haven't we? No second feelings?" His face seemed rather worn.

"Yeah, I think I'll take this one."


	3. Malfoy and Fortescue

AN: *I didn't know that JK Rowling wanted a Walnut phoenix wand until I had finished writing Chapter two.

"Flourish and Blotts", said Sam, looking expectantly at the bookstore in front of him. He had gotten his wand (seven precious galleons from his allowance) and the rest of his supplies as quickly as possible save his robes (which would take a lot of hassle) so he could spend as much of his time as possible here. The interior of the store was filled with books stacked to the ceiling, all curiosities. Apart from the boring standard tomes there were books the size of stamps covered in silk, books as large in paving stones bound in leather, and books filled with all sorts of interesting subjects. Even as he swept up his year one schoolbooks, his attention was drawn to other, less conventional tomes. _Hogwarts: A History_ seemed nice, and so he put it into his basket. _Curses and Countercurses_ seemed a certainty, until he read the introduction and realised that nine-tenths of the spells listed would be impossible to him until later. In went _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. Anything with _Children_ in the name stayed out. Just as a curiosity, he also got copies of _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland_ because they contained, well, DRAGONS. _Charms of Defence and Detterence_ appeared quite informative, and he also, prior to heading to the counter, swept up a worn tome called _Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science_. Well, it contained "Science" in it- that was a first.

His purse seemed quite relieved when, several hours later, he shut _A History of Magic_ (Which he had been reading on a bench) and realised that the sun was setting, he hadn't gotten his robes and that Hagrid was going to be ballistic when he found him- if he had finished his pick-me-up, that was.

Sam walked in Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling rather queasy in his stomach. Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch, clad in muave robes. "Hogwarts, dear?" she asked, just as Sam began to wonder how to talk to her. "Got the lot here-another young man being fitted up just now, in fact." In the back of the shop, Harry noticed another boy with a pale pointed face being outfitted by a second witch while standing on a footstool. Madam Malkin stood Samuel up next to the young boy, whose eyes seemed to gleam with a strange quality, holding himself up as if he deserved this kind of treatment every day.

"Hello", said the boy. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Sam.

The boy began talking with a bored, drawling voice. "My father's next store buying my books and Mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. "Then I'm going-"

"Er, don't you have to test out wands for yourself first?" Sam felt his face glow red as the boy looked at him.

"As if. Everyone knows that the Malfoys don't bother with low-level nonsense like that. Choosing is for the other sort- mudbloods. We purebloods can handle anything we want."

"Mudbloods?"

"You really are clueless, aren't you?" Here his head tiled down, and his voice became hushed. "Mudbloods are the scum of the earth, they're unfit to be wizards. You see, they've only got one wizard parent, or no wizard parents at all. That's why they're no good."

Sam was strongly reminded of racist rallies against black or mixed people: _Black people are the scum of the earth, they're unfit to be  human. You see, they've only got one white parent, or no white parents at all. That's why they're no good._ He began to strongly resent this boy. Are all wizards like that? He wondered. Or just these "Pure-bloods"? Are far as he knew, his parents were perfectly normal muggles, which made him... He didn't know anymore. The boy went back to chattering. "Anyways, I'm going to drag them away to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Sam was not impressed.

"Have _you_ got your own broom?" The boy went on.

"No."

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," said Sam again, vaguely wondering whether thw Quality Quidditch Supplies shop had anything to do with it, and what on earth Quidditch could be.

"I do- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my House, and I have to say I agree. Know what House you'll be in yet?"

"Er..." Sam frantically thought back to him leafing through _Hogwarts: A History_. Houses... Houses...

"Ravenclaw, I guess?" He felt pretty stupid saying that, but Ravenclaw was for the clever lot- he certainly hoped to get in.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm," Sam said, wishing quietly that he could say anything more interesting than single words.

"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding towards the front window. Hagrid was standing there, apparently looking for Sam.

"That's Hagrid." said Sam, wondering what the boy thought of the man. "I think he's from Hogwarts."

"Oh, I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"Well... I'm not sure, actually." Sam found himself liking the boy rather less. The snooty attitude didn't help much.

"Yes, exactly. I've heard he's a sort of _savage_ -lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he get's drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's fine. He didn't seem too bad."

"Huh. Tell me-"

"Sam" Sam said curtly.

"Tell me, Sam, why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're- well, they're muggles..."

"No wonder." Here he stifled a derisive snort. "If it was me, I'd ditch them as fast as possible too. Doesn't hide the fact that you're a filthy muggleborn though." The last bit was spoken with a sneer.

Sam was infuriated. "How dare you-"

"Well well, that's you done, my dear. Do try not to stir up any trouble, will you?" Madam Malkin stepped away from his stool, and Sam rushed out of the shop, fuming loudly.

"Well, you look angry. What's the matter?" Hagrid looked at him oddly. "Got all yer things yet?"

"Err... I think." Sam unrolled his piece of paper. "That's everything, yeah. I got a collapsible cauldron though. Cost me a bit more, but at least I don't have to carry the thing around."

"That's a good call. Can yeh believe we used to make them carry 'em without the collapsin' charm? The lot all dreaded potions, they did." He was chortling now. "At least 'till Snape got in. Now they're jus' terrified."

"Snape?"

"Professor Snape for yeh. Potions master o' Hogwarts. I wouldn' want teh get on his bad side now." Hagrid seemed a lot more talkative once he had his drink. "Meet anyon' interestin' in particular?"

"Yeah, I met a jerk called... Draco."

Hagrid's face darkened. "I hard abou' him. He's the son o' Lucius, one o' them old-timey nobles. Thinks because he's got a rich dad, he can walk righ' over the world. Bes' if yeh don' talk to him at all. Trust me, it ain't pretty."

"Lucius is a noble?! You guys still have powerful nobles here? We got our parliament act together decades ago! But you guys have a... Ministry of some sorts, right? So..."

"Don' be fooled by the Chief Minister. The Ministry o' Magic's really controlled by the Wizengamot, an' the Wizengamot's made of nobles. Pureblood folk like Lucius. Lately the've bin usin' Grindelwald as an excuse teh do some pretty shady stuff. All those regulations... Still, don' concern yerself with this, lad. Hogwarts' the safest there is. Dumbledore's gonna hold 'em at bay."

"Dumbledore... the headmaster?"

Hagrid lit up at the mention of his name.

"Dumbledore saved us all, yeh know. Defeated Grindelwald all those years ago. Shame he got voted outta the Wizengamot in '85. He woulda done so much more. Fer us, I mean. He's a wonderful man. Took me in when... when... when..."

And he spoke no more.

"It's fine, Hagrid." Sam said quietly. Dumbledore... another name to remember, eh? He thought quietly.

"Ah!" Hagrid's face suddenly brightened. "Florean! Yeh want some ice cream, Sam?"

As it turned out, wizarding ice cream tasted just like regular ice cream, only better. "This stall's been here forever, since the days when the Fortescues were knights, you know. Still know quite a bit about those old days." Florean said with a twinkle in his eye as he took Hagrid's payment for the two large ice creams- strawberry and chocolate.

"Ooh! Some of your ancestors were knights?"

"Quite a few, actually. I could tell you all about that, but I'd expect you to be more interested in ol' Dexter."

"Dexter... Dexter Fortescue... He was a headmaster, right? I saw his name in _Hogwarts: A History_ earlier."

"Why yes! One of my more... august ancestors. He had quite a library, you know. I still read some of its books occasionally."

Sam quietly made a note in his brain to talk to Florean if he ever needed information on wizarding history, or Hogwarts headmasters. At the same time, however, he said goodbye cheerfully and walked towards the Leaky Cauldron, lugging his trunk filled with books and supplies behind him."Summer just got a whole lot longer", he thought. "Now that I ain't going to public school anymore."


	4. A (Train)car named Desire, or Hogwarts

**AN** : Thanks for all the comments and support. Since this was my first story, I didn't really know how to handle all this... Thanks!

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The last month in the Wright household passed in a blaze of worn pages and hustled writing. Given, that's what they always did, but with such a vast frontier to explore, Sam certainly wasn't going to let little things like hunger stop his reading. Sam's father was a writer and his mother a teacher, and together they had instilled in young Sam a love of books and great curiosity, both things exceedingly rare in this dreary modern age. All of the books he brought home with him stood, waiting expectantly, in a pile as Sam leafed through them one by one. Even if he wasn't going to finish all of them, he would at least be able to tell, for example, where a bezoar was, and where to find it. (Or so he hoped)

He managed to get Hagrid to drop off a message telling the Professor that he certainly accepted the position, which he would give to Professor McGonagall when he got back (since he didn't have an owl yet. After passing through the mandatory Ministry Checkpoint (which made sure that everything you bought didn't raise too much suspicion and complied with the Statute of Secrecy as well as any "illegal" or "inflammatory" items, which Sam suspected wee simply Ministry code for subversive books), Hagrid also gave him his Hogwarts train ticket, which said to go somewhere called Platform 9 3/4. He mostly ignored it in his excitement, and pocketed it for further study. Before he could ask anything else though, Hagrid had disappeared on the Tube.

Thinking back on it now, Sam thought it had all seemed remarkably like a hallucination- if it weren't for his trunk load of equipment, wand, and schoolbooks. Physics didn't behave the way it was supposed to. You could, apparently, generate the force to lift stones while not exerting any energy yourself. Water could flow out of the tip of your wand despite you not drawing it from another source. It was quite frightening, really. There were no constraints whatsoever. No laws... except for these.

And so Sam said, for the tenth time that evening, "Wingardium leviosa."

The stone on his desk didn't fly up. It didn't even twitch. Sam was mildly discouraged. This magic thing, it seemed, would take a bit more work than this. _What was it again? Swish-flick? Swish.._

He had one last thing he wanted to try before September 1st, however. After making an excuse about going to take a walk, Sam caught the Tube to London, where he (with some mild mystification) managed to find the Leaky Cauldron without seeming too out of place. He quietly asked Tom what the sequence was. _Left, up, right, down..._

To his immense delight, Diagon Alley presented itself to him, the brick archway dissolving and revealing the bustling streets in front. He wasn't dreaming after all.

"Florean!"

"Hello, Sam." Florean said quizzically. "What brings you here? You want an ice cream?"

"Uh, sure." He took out a few pounds. "Do you take muggle money, Florean?"

"I don't. Gringotts has a muggle exchange though."

Ah... so there is a way to exchange. Sam thought to himself, and resolved to do more research. In the meantime, however, he had found his sickles and galleons which he had taken from the purse for "further study".

"Florean," he said while eating a vanilla ice-cream. "Since I'm new to this magic business, can I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure." Florean said, serving ice-cream to another customer.

Sam looked down at his list of questions, things that the books didn't cover:

 _1\. Is all intentional magic channelled from wands? (Apart from potion-making)_

 _2\. If not, what are the prerequisites for wandless magic?_

 _3\. Can magic backfire?_

 _4\. What is "raw magic"?_

 _5\. Does magic have a base form? If so, how do you channel it?_

 _6\. Does blood status effect magical ability and/or magical heritability?_

 _7\. Does magic have a measurement unit?_

 _8\. Does magical potential vary from person to person, and why?_

 _9\. If you are particularly inept at one form of magic, can you overcome it?_

 _10\. Can muggles be taught non-wand magic? (Herbology, Potions, Astronomy, Divination [?])_

 _11\. WHERE IS PLATFORM 9 3/4? (EXTREMELY IMPORTANT)_

As it turned out, there was a thing called wandless magic, done with bare hands, gestures, and the occasional interpretative dance. It was, however, extremely hard- most Hogwarts seniors and even most Hogwarts professors didn't know how to do but the simplest of wandless incantations. Magic often backfired, especially when done without prerequisite knowledge and a faulty or rebellious wand. Sam thought back to Ollivander's comment on how his wand would obey him unconditionally, and felt slightly more relieved. Unfortunately for Sam, before he could even voice question four, Florean became surrounded by a gaggle of men of all ages, all rather intent for ice-cream. Bidding Florean a hasty farewell, Sam escaped the clutches of the eager customers and went to Gringotts- his next stop, slightly miffed that he still didn't know the location of Platform 9 3/4.

He pushed open the door, noting (with a grim smile) the poem on the entrance. It worked well to set the atmosphere, of course, but it was when combined with the imposing marble entryway, supported by two massive pillars, that really gave this place a feeling of _grandeur_ and _impreganability_. This didn't seem like a good place to rob, and Sam felt pretty certain that it was designed that way- psychological defense was just as, if not more, important than physical defence. You had to impress potential thieves, make them understand that _THIS WASN'T A PLACE TO BE TRIFLED WITH_ (even if it was). The foyer, with it's grand, polished decoration and manual surveillance from every corner simply radiated security and a sense of impregnability. Most lower-level thieves would probably have been severely discouraged by now, which was nice. Whether it had the guts to deal with the less lower-level thieves, Sam thought, was another matter entirely; one that Sam privately suspected lay with the second thing that made Gringotts unique from any other bank:

You see, Hagrid wasn't kidding when he said Gringotts was run by goblins. In fact, Sam could see no wizards- or humans of _any kind_ at all- behind the counters that lined the entrance hall. All of them short, scowling creatures dealing in piles of gold, silver, copper, and what appeared to be bagfuls of valuable gems and mineral ores.

After waiting for what seemed like hours, Sam finally spied a free goblin at a counter. He walked over, taking out his wallet. "Hello," he said to the goblin.

"Hello, Mr..." Said the goblin, eyeing Sam's purse with a gleam in his eye.

"Wright. Samuel Wright. What's your name?" replied Sam, hurriedly pocketing his wallet.

"Griphook." the goblin said, still eyeing his pocket with a suspicious look, as if he could feel the... how do you feel money? Anyways, Sam felt equally nervous.

"So..."

The talk that ensued would last for what could only be described as an astronomically long amount of time, measured perhaps, in years. One thing was clear- by the time Sam got home, he was probably dead. His parents weren't exactly pleased that he had spent the day in a place that they "wouldn't know existed". He promised not to do that again, and went into his room to continue reading his books. He fell asleep near midnight- and woke up on September the 1st. It was Hogwarts Express time, and he still didn't have the faintest idea where Platform 9 and 3/4 was.


	5. Platform 9 and 3 Quarters

Sam looked at the clock on the wall lazily. It was still early.. he didn't want to go to school... It was... what school was it really? Ho... Ho...

This he saw his wand.

HOGWARTS. He was actually going. To. Hogwarts. His life would never be the same. His enire existence had just... Exploded. There was a whole world out there. Magic. And he was going to be late.

"MUM! DAD! WE HAVE TO HURRY! WE HAVE TO GET TO-"

"Slow down, dear. The neighbours over at Number Four were just yelling at their boy for being late. And here you are, the complete reverse?"

"Their boy... Dursley, right? The fat, stupid one? The one who tried to push me into the gutter once?"

"Now, now, Sam. Don't go calling other people stupid-"

"But he is, Mum. Am I right, Dad."

"Lad, that's irrelevant. The point is," his dad put on his serious face, "that it's rude to call people names. We've been through this before. Now, were you about to be late, or what?"

"Err..." He looked at his ticket. "I need to be at King's Cross in half an hour."

"Lovely. Let's go, shall we?"

The drive to King's Cross was... uneventful, to say the least. Every once in awhile, Sam would think that he saw another set of black wizard's robes, but they would flash by and be gone. At the very last, however, they arrived, with Sam hefting his large trunk, stuffed to the brim with magical goodies, books and a few muggle novels. His collapsible cauldron was strapped to the side, looking to all the world like a small, cauldron-shaped charm. His scales were folded away inside his (surprisingly roomy) wooden trunk, and a spare change of robes hung inside his back pack.

Sam took a deep breath, and marched towards platform 9.

No magical barrier. He had been hoping it would be like the Leaky Cauldron, but it seemed that King's Cross was too... er... muggle-populated for that kind of thing. Hmm... Where on earth could it-

"Goodness!" Sam had bumped into a plump, red-haired woman.

"Er... Sorry..." Sam murmured, flustered.

"Don't worry dear." She eyed his attire, then said in a small, hushed voice, "You wouldn't be going to Hogwarts too, would you, dear?"

"Yeah, I'm going to Hogwarts," said Sam brightly, glad that he had found somebody magical this quickly.

"Lovely. And are those your parents?"

"Yes," said Sam, waving his anxious parents, who had been standing in a corner, looking nervously.

"And who would you be?" said Sam's dad, eyeing the handful of red-haired kids next to the woman that Sam had only just now noticed.

"Molly Weasley. And you?"

"Richard Wright."

"Nicole Wright, pleased to meet you." They both shook Ms. Weasley's hand. She certainly seemed rather jovial. Sam took a liking to her. As his parents talked to Ms. Weasley, he looked at her children, who seemed to be having a bit of a spat amongst themselves.

"What's the platform number?" said a young boy, looking around King's Cross anxiously.

"Nine and three quarters. You're so lucky, Ron, you get to go. Why can't I go?" piped a little girl, also red headed.

"Well, you're ten, innit? You're gonna go next year,eh?" said the boy, looking a bit embarrassed.

"Ooh, is little Ginny having a tantrum now?" joked one of the older boys.

"We wouldn't want to let her down now, George." said another boy who looked identical to the first. "Maybe we'll smuggle you in along with the luggage?"

"Fred!" said Ms. Weasley. "Don't you dare smuggle Ginny in! I'll have both of your heads!"

"Why, mum? Why can't I go?"

"There, there, Ginny, we've been through this before. You're not old enough. Now be quiet."Ms. Weasley turned back and said a few words to Sam's parents, who nodded and waved goodbye to Sam.

"Have fun, Sam!"

"Take care!"

Sam didn't quite see it, but his parents seemed to be crying.

"Well, my dear. It's off to platform nine and three quarters, alright?"

"Well... that was my problem... I'm new..."

"How to get onto the platform? Not to worry. All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Best to do it at a run if you're nervous. Here, go with Ron. He's new too. Go on, now."

"Hello, Ron. I'm Sam."

"Hey, Sam. Here we go, I guess."

The two took off at a run. People jostled them, but they kept going... gathering speed... he wouldn't be able to stop now... He closed his eyes, ready to crash...

Nothing happened. He opened his eyes, and found a beautiful scarlet steam engine, puffs of smoke emitting from it's funnel wafting over the massive platform. The sigh overhead said "Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock". He checked his watch. Ten fifty. He did it. Crowds of people milled along the station, some holding exotic pets, some clutching stacks of books. Ministry officials weaved in an out of the crowd, making sure they didn't cause too much of a ruckus. he turned to Ron-

"Identification, please." A crimson-robed official, robes emblazoned with the Ministry of Magic emblem, looked at him sternly, as if to say "I am an adult and you are a petulant child who needs to know better."

"Sorry, I..."

"identification." He repeated, growing annoyed.

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Your Wizards' Ordinary Magic and Basic Aptitude Test results and either your Wizard's Internal Muggleborn Pass or your Pureblood Registry: Underage Native Entree forms. I take it you're a muggleborn then."

"Yeah. Do I have to fill out a form or something?"

"Yes." He said in a monotone. He pulled out a long sheet of paper. "The paper is charmed with a anti-lying detection charm. Failure to show complete honesty will result in the termination of your wand and the stripping of your wizard rights, followed by removal of the related properties as deemed relevant by the Centre of Internal Affairs decree No.67 and overseen by the Department for the Regulation of the International Statute of Secrecy."

"Sorry... You said properties?"

"Yes, all currency, materials, books, purchased items and personal property, including relevant or statute-breaching memories."

"MEMORIES?! You can just-"

"That is correct. Please proceed." On the other hand, he just saw Ron being dismissed as well.

"Ron! D'you know what they're done-"

"Yeah. Anti-lying, memories and all that."

"Y'think they'll really delete our memories?"

"I hope not."

"Didn't you know this was coming? I mean, you lot seem awfully wizard-like..." He gestured at his trunk, which contained a rat.

"You know, that's funny, Fred and George never mentioned these. Now that I think of it, Percy was filling out a few forms earlier..."

"Who's Percy?"

"Percy the prefect, you mean. He'd the oldest after Bill and Charlie. Became a Prefect this year, wouldn't stop blabbing on about it. You should've seen him, dressed in his robes and standing like a loon."

Now that Sam thought about it a bit more, he did remember seing a prim and proper figure, decked in neat black robes and a large conspicuous badge.

"He seems awfully proper."

Ron gave a small snort. "'Proper' doesn't even begin to describe it."

"Well, I guess we have to fill in our forms, eh? I suppose you got a pureblood registry form, huh."

"Well, the Ministry guy kept trying to give me a muggleborn form. Something about me being "dissident". I guess blood traitors look about the same as mudblood to them."

"Why would they call you "dissident"?" Sam's interest was piqued now, and Ron's face turned a slight shade of red.

"Well, I was consortin' with a muggleborn, y'know? We're not supposed to do that." His face looked rather embarrassed. "-Not that you have a problem, really." He added rather hastily, noting Sam's expression.

"Talk about Fantastic Racism." Sam muttered gloomily.

"Hey, it's not so bad. So long as you don't get into Slytherin, that is. Bunch o' stuck up purebloods if I've ever seen 'em."

"There's a pureblood house? I mean, the guide only says that they're "ambitious" or whatever..."

"Ambitious, sure, if your lifetime's ambition is to wipe out all muggleborns, then yeah. Slytherin really meant it when he said his house was for (and here he made air quotes) "those pure of blood". It's just blatant favouritism, eh? They get top billing, double points for everything, better food, loose schedules, little to no detentions, heck, they've won the House Cup, what, ten years in a row now?"

That sounded pretty unfair to Sam. He was going to make a remark about it, but then he spied the clock- and decided that writing quickly probably served him better.

"Ron, we've got to write our forms- now."

* * *

 **Wizard's Internal Muggle-born Pass (W.I.M.P) _1991-1992 Edition A_**

Muggle-born Registration Commission (M.R.D.), Centre of Internal Affairs (C.I.A.), Department of Magical Law Enforcement (D.M.L.E.)

 **Basic Information**

 **Name:** Samuel Wright

 **Age:** 11

 **Birthday:** July 30th, 1980

 **W.O.M.B.A.T. Score:** (He promised to fill it in later)

 **Address:** No.10 Prievt Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey

 **Guardian Information**

 **1st Guardian Name:** Nicole Wright nee Smith

 **Role:** Mother

 **Born:** Cokeworth Hospital, Date N.A. (He honestly couldn't remember)

 **Magical Aptitude:** Muggle

 **Separate Address (If Applicable):** N.A.

 **2nd Guardian Name:** Richard Wright

 **Born:** John Coupland Hospital, Date N.A. (He couldn't remember that either)

 **Magical Aptitude:** Muggle

 **Separate Address (If Applicable):** N.A.

 **Magical Aptitude Information**

 **When, if at all, did your magic manifest (record first event in memory):** I once levitated a paperweight about to fall on my foot when I was 7.

 **Do you have any information concerning the source of your magic*?** Natural? It just sort of... was. (He didn't quite get this question)

 **Have you interacted with other wizards or witches prior to your recieval of the acceptance letter?** No

 **Do you have any knowledge of taking magic from another being by theft or force?** No (He was extremely puzzled by this one. How did one steal magic?)

 _*Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Spontaneous cases of magic being Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force. The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued the standard W.I.M.P. registry form, inviting all muggle-borns to prove their magical purity by undertaking this uncheatable test._

* * *

Scrawling in his last answer, he flipped a page to find the W.O.M.B.A.T. test. With minutes to spare, he found Ron (Who had also finished his form), hurriedly filled in the test together, and got on the train just before the doors shut (his trunk had been delivered already).

As the train pulled out of King's Cross, he and Ron stumbled around looking for a compartment. Finding one empty, they crashed down on the seat (for the train was picking up speed now) and looked at each other, red faced from trying to stay balanced on the moving train.

"Well, that wasn't so hard, right mate?"

Sam himself was rather at a loss. He thought about everything that he had experienced, from Draco saying mudblood to Ron saying that Pureblood Slytherins were quite literally the upper class and that wizards weren't supposed to "consort" with muggle-borns all the way to the W.I.M.P. questioning him about his magical origin.

 _"Ron, are you sure Muggle-borns aren't an oppressed social group?"_


	6. Express train to the Stars

Sam looked out of the window of the Hogwarts Express, not quite sure what to think.

On one hand, he was heading to a school for sorcery and magic.

On the other hand, muggle-borns like him didn't seem to be welcome here.

On the other hand, _he was heading to a school for sorcery and magic._

He really didn't know what to think. Ron had assured him that despite a few "problems", wizards as a whole were pretty neutral to the whole muggleborn thing. It was really the top brass who didn't seem to like him. As the train passed through London and into the countryside, Sam decided to stop thinking about these things. He opened his backpack and pulled out a map.

"What're you doing with that?"

"Trying to plot the course of this train, and, by extension, Hogwarts. It's on my to-do list."

"Don't bother. Hogwarts is Unplottable. You can't mark it on a map."

"That's absurd! So what happens if you do try to mark it?"

"I dunno. I guess it just sort of disappears."

"That's ridiculous! Can I at least circle the general area?"

"I don't think so. That would make the charm useless, wouldn't it? The closest anyone ever got was... the highlands of Scotland, I think."

"Presposterous. Here. The track was straight out of London so far, and I haven't read anything about Wizards making their own tracks so..." He pointed at a set of black lines. "Post Beeching, these are the main train tracks to Scotland." He pulled out a black pen and drew a line down Scotland, starting from a little past Elgin and drawing a long, wobbly arc all the way to somewhere around Glasgow.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"On your left, Ron, is what the muggles call the highlands."

"That's a big area."

"Yeah. That's why I think it's bollocks that all they could say was "somewhere in the highlands." That's like saying "somewhere in Guangzhou."

"Where?"

"It's in China, nevermind."

"Blimey, I never thought of it this way before."

"It's not a problem. I don't think most people do."

Sam put away his pen and pointed at Inverness. "That takes eight to ten hours to get to, or more depending on the situation, by train. When are we supposed to arrive?"

"Early evening, I suppose. The welcome banquet's always at night."

"Okay. So..." He drew a line from Peterhead to Applecross. "Anything above is off-limits."

"Nice work," said Ron, obviously impressed.

"Do we cross the sea?"

"I don't think so, my brothers don't mention it, at least."

"Good." He crossed out all of the islands. "Is Hogwarts inland?"

"Yes."

He crossed out the coastline. "What else can you tell me about Hogwarts?"

"It's near a forest-"

"Like everything else in Scotland."

"It has a lake-"

"No rivers?"

"No."

"That's a bit hard to identify..."

Ron suddenly burst out laughing.

"What?"

"Couldn't you have just calculated how far the train would have gone? It's a roughly straight line from London to Scotland, so..."

Sam felt rather foolish.

"Okay... This is a 4-6-0 Hall Class steam locomotive with an unknown model number... probably from GWR."

"How'd you know all this?"

"I was a huge train fanatic when I was younger. Memorised all of the models. Anyways, it has a maximum tractive force of 121,330 Newtons and an approximate top speed of 113 km/h giving us six hours of run time resulting in... approximately 678 kilometres run. Couple that and we get... hmm. Hold on a second, let me do some conversions. 404 miles goes roughly to... 650 kilometres. That's from London to Glasgow, so it can't be far ahead." He took out his pen and drew a rough quadilateral with the corners at the Queen Elizabeth forest park, Sterling, Balquihadder and Comrie.

"That's the closest I can get... I think. Only one way to find out." He wrote "Hogwarts" near the centre of the shape, marking it with an X.

The words disappeared from the map.

"Y'know, I was rather surprised that would work. One thinks that they would've modified the train with magic or something..."

"They do, actually. The steam's just for show, I think."

A thought dawned on Sam, and he felt rather horrified.

"Ron, wait. What if..."

From his face, he could see that Ron thought the same as well. He gingerly picked up his ballpoint pen and wrote "Hogwarts" in the middle of the ocean, marking it with an X. Then again in London, Glasgow, and Wales.

All of the marks disappeared.

Sam felt like cursing. Ron patted his back, saying, "I'm pretty sure you got it nearly right, Sam. Don't worry, maybe you'll spot something later, eh?" Ron looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

It was at that moment that the lady with the trolley came in.

"Hello, dears," she said, gesturing at the various sweets and drinks. "Anything from the trolley?"

Ron turned away, mumbling, "I'm not hungry. I've got... sandwiches."

Sam, who was mighty hungry, fished out his last few coins. "What'll this get me?"

"Let's see. You can have a pumpkin juice, a Frog and some Bertie Bott's Every-flavour beans."

"That's fine, thanks." he said, forking over the last of his meagre "allowance". Hagrid had assured him it was okay for students to take a few galleons for themselves, and Sam found himself wishing he had taken more. He took his food from the trolley lady and thanked her.

He returned to his seat finding Ron looking rather glumly at what could only be described as an old sandwich.

"That your lunch Ron?"

"Yeah, it's corned beef. Mum always forgets that I don't like corned beef." He looked at Sam's snacks hungrily.

"Here, Ron, have some of my beans."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Sam said, tearing open the pack of every-flavour beans.

"Well, you've got to be careful with those. When they say they come in every flavour, hey come in every flavour. Fred reckons he tasted a vomit flavoured one once."

Sam nodded, absentmindedly munching on the beans, occasionally letting Ron have some as well. Then he began to sputter.

"What the heck... TOMATO BEANS?"

"It's not all that bad. You haven't tasted the spinach flavoured ones."

"Buh... Buh... Buh I HATE tomatoes."

"Really?" Ron asked curiously, his lips tugging in a half-smile.

"Yeah, sorry. I've been like that for a looong time now."

It was about that time that a large, fluffy owl flew in, holding two letters in its beak.

"What the..."

'C'mon, Sam, we better open these. Hey, they're addressed to us!"

"That's a shock. See if anyone else is getting them."

Sure enough, a swarm of owls was seen flying into windows, carrying letters with bright red seals just like their own by the hundreds.

"I think everyone's getting one", said Ron, the sandwiches and beans quickly forgotten.

Sam tore open the one addressed to him, noting the large Ministry of Magic Seal. He read:

* * *

Dear **Mr. Potter** , ( _No.10 Prievt Drive. Little Whinging, Surrey_ )

The Muggleborn Registration Division would like to congratulate you on having successfully completed the W.I.M.P. test and hereby grants you the blood status of: " **Muggle-born wizard (honorary)"**. As a muggle-born, you will be provided with a badge signifying your heritage and to prevent confusion. The badge provided must be worn at all times. Failure to do so will result in punishment and expulsion from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as well as expulsion of your "muggle-born wizard" honorary blood status and a demotion to "muggle" blood status, and relevant containment options will be taken as outlined under the 1897 Muggle Regulation and Control Act (MRCA) and the 1899 Muggle-Born Charter of Rights and Status (MCRS).

From 1991 onwards, a number of new policies will also be introduced to Hogwarts in order to improve the quality of education at this school. As established after the attempted Muggle-born coup of 1896, muggle-borns are discouraged from attempting government and leadership roles, a policy that we will extend into Hogwarts. Muggleborns are hereby restricted from applying for positions of "Inquisitor", Prefect", and "Head boy". Those who have achieved these positions will continue to hold them until they graduate, under Educational Decree No.71.

Muggle-borns are, as of this year, prohibited from entering Slytherin House, and the selection process has also been modified to accomodate for these new changes (Educational Decree No. 73). Also starting from 1991, Muggle-borns (those above third-year and eligible) are not to receive Hogsmeade visit privileges due to safety reasons as listed under Educational Decree No.73. These privileges will not affect your academic performance, so there is no need to be alarmed. Finally, under Educational Decree No.74, Muggle-borns are heavily discouraged from returning home during the winter and Easter holidays unless there are valid medical or urgent needs which can be submitted to the Department of Magical Education.

Thank you, and we wish you a fruitful and productive year at Hogwarts.

Yours,

 _Dolores Umbridge_

Hogwarts High Inquisitor

Head of the Department of Magical Education

Very Important Member of Section M.I. Trx.

Co-Head of the Muggleborn Registration Division (Formerly the Muggleborn Registration Commission)

* * *

On Sam's lap, glinting in the sun, was a badge, with the symbol of a lightning bolt printed on it, the words M.B. flashing as the train shuddered while it turned.

Silence.


	7. A Talk, and Inspectors

Ron didn't quite seem to understand what Sam was going on about. "Nazis?"

"Yes, and they, like, catalogued Jews by giving them these yellow stars and now they're giving us a lightning bolt... actually, d'you know why they're giving us a lightning bolt? I'm guessing that it has to do with electricity..."

"Well, eleck-ricity is sort of like your muggle "magic", right? My dad loves these types of gimmicks, but most folks simply don't know how this thing works... but it's everywhere, so it sort of became your, er, defining thing, I guess."

"Well, just like all myths ever, people fear what they don't understand, eh mate?" Sam was making air quotes as he did it.

"I... guess so." Ron was looking rather uncomfortable.

Sam was going to say more, but then the door opened, and in stepped a girl with long, dark brown hair. She was holding a large, thick book, and had a large M.B. Badge stuck to the front of her robes where it hung proudly, reflecting the sunlight from the window.

"Hello, my name is Hermione Granger- have you seen a toad anywhere?"

Sam told her that no, they hadn't seen a toad, and that they were also pleased to meet her, at which point she decided to go to another compartment to investigate.

"She's a Ravenclaw for sure." Ron seemed rather miffed.

"Ravenclaw?"

"You do know about the Houses, right?"

"From what I heard, Ravenclaw's supposed to be really smart or whatever. I guess she was holding a book, so..."

"Yeah, right. That's what they tell you." Ron's face looked rather reminiscent of a Red Scare theorist. Unfortunately, the Soviet Union had just collapsed (all part of a secret conspiracy to assimilate Britain, he was sure)

"You're kidding, right?"

"I'm telling you, here's how it _really_ works." Ron leaned close. 'Slytherin's for the purebloods. You must know that much. They get all of the best perks and all of the good food, while the rest of us don't even get half that."

"I...guess..."

"Ravenclaw's for the collaborators. They call 'em the smart ones cause they bow and grovel at the Ministry lot. My dad never liked 'em, a bunch of stuck-ups if there ever were any."

"Uh-huh."

"Gryffindor's for the rebels, y'know. The ones who think they can change anything. They get the worst of the lot, all the other students pick on them, and even some of the teachers. I think you're kinda hopeless if you get sent there, and don't even _think_ about getting a job with anyone from the Ministry." He snorted, as if a Gryffindor getting a Ministry job were about as likely as time going backwards.

"And what about Hufflepuffs?"

Here Ron's face grew dark.

"The Hufflepuffs are the hopeless ones. That where they send all the rest of them muggle-borns, the ones who aren't clever enough or rebellious enough. I hear they even send blood traitors there. I mean, the stuff's not as bad as Gryffindor, but if you end up there, you're pretty much hopeless." As he spoke, Sam noticed him shake his head lightly, as if the thought of ending up in Hufflepuff was too awful to bear.

"I bet I end up in Hufflepuff," Sam muttered gloomily.

"Cheer up, mate. Here- eat your frog. We better change soon, though. I think that's the Dark Forest over there. At least, that's what Fred told me, and I'm not quite sure if he's pulling my leg or not."

* * *

In the distance, a lone streetlamp was glowing.

It was joined by another, then another, and then another more. Soon, there were an entire row of these lights, giving off a strange, eerie glow that was no doubt for more purposes than lighting up the (fast approaching) darkness. Sam sat on his still warm seat on the Hogwarts Express, watching as the Prefects exited the more brightly lit Slytherin Carriages up front and patrolling the halls for stragglers not in uniform yet. As the train rushed by a sign, Sam barely had the time to make out the words on top: "Hogsmeade", the fully wizarding village near Hogwarts. He was nearly there.

He shifted uncomfortably under his robes, which were several sizes too large for him. The poor cloth, thatched and worn, was also patched with holes, and a sleeve had several stains of some uncomfortably dark liquid near their edge. In short, the wizarding equivalent of the Russian peasant "comrade" outfit. Ron's robes, while not similarly stained, had nevertheless that look one's clothes got when repaired one too many times, even if it was repaired with (Sam presumed) magic. Ron had just finished the last of his corned beef sandwiches, and was looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Sam felt his own rumbling stomach, and was assured by Ron that as long as you didn't get into Gryffindor, the food wasn't half bad at the feast. Well, for a given definition of "not half bad". As they spoke, however, the train rolled to a stop.

"C'mon Sam, we better get our trunk first."

"Sure, Ron-"

"There will be no need for that." Another voice spoke from behind, a cold, authoritative voice that sounded nothing like anybody Sam had ever heard before.

The new person wore red robes, like the Ministry official on the platform. On his breast, made of gold instead of silver like the one on the platform, was a Department of Magical Law Enforcement badge and a Ministry official badge, as well as a smaller badge with the Hogwarts Coat-of-Arms inscribed upon it. His face was rather stiff

"Your papers, please."

"What's this?" Ron didn't quite seem to know what was happening. Sam knew all too well.

"I am a Department of Magical Law Enforcement Official of the Muggleborn Registration Division. I require your W.I.M.P. or P.R.U.N.E forms in order to register your, ah, blood status. Hogwarts requires this information in order to discern the, ah, privileges offered to each student for their _educational_ needs." An outstretched hand was produced. "Now, gentlemen, your papers."

Two crumpled stacks of papers pull into that outstretched hand.

"So... one Wright, Samuel and one Weasley, Ronald, yes?"

"Right." "Yep."

"Mr. Weasley, your pureblood status has been confirmed, and Mr. Wright, you are a..."

"Muggleborn, sir."

"Muggleborn." He said that word with a sneer.

"Very well, children, you may have your papers back. Now if you'll just give me a moment..." He murmured something, and though Sam couldn't hear it quite clearly, it sounded rather like "I can't believe I'm doing this. I wanted to be an Auror, not..."

As he trailed off, a large brown ledger of faded brown leather was produced. As he flipped through, Harry saw all of the names of the students entering this year, and either a stroke, a cross, a dot, or nothing next to them. As he looked, more dots and crosses appeared, no doubt from all the other Ministry Officials on the train working on their own ledgers. A cross slowly came into being next to one Justin Finch-Fletchley, and a dot appeared next to Neville Longbottom. Next to Sam's name the official marked a cross, next to Ron's he marked nothing. With a smart snap he shut his ledger, and without even a word of farewell, moved on, handing them their papers on their way out. As he left, Sam finally saw his name, on a rather unpolished rusty brown name tag- John Dawlish.

A short while later, the train pulled into the station proper, and Sam and Ron disembarked, joining all of the other students. Some had lightning bolt badges and some had not, but all of them were cold, dark, and damp, save for the few who knew how to use magic (and were very glad they did).


	8. The Sorting (Part I)

Sam sat on a long, rather unpleasant stone bench, next all of the other chattering first years. They amounted about forty to fifty or so, all scared young children. He himself was coming down with a bad case of the shivers, and his hands trembled under his robes. As he glanced as the flickering torches that lined the walls, he sadly remarked that he would've liked more warmth or even, god forbid, some food. The boat ride here (he wasn't allowed to sit with purebloods, naturally) hadn't exactly been the best for his young, chilly first year body. Next to him, he noticed, there were about forty newcomers. This didn't exactly bode well for the Magical English pop[ulation, and if he had time he would certainly run a few calculations on population figures, but he was too worried to think about any of that now.A stern old witch named McGonagall (He laughed when he heard the name- while she might not be famous, William McGonagall certainly was.) had told them that the Sorting (it was the sort of term that warranted a capital 'S') would begin soon- he certainly hoped so. And then, without warning, the doors slammed open with a BOOM!

The Sorting had begun.

In front of the doors was a massive hall, filled to the brim with tables, at which sat students of all ages. The walls were painted with frescoes depicting the houses (Gryffindor's looked rather dilapidated) and row after row of candles floated in the air above the students, lighting up the entire room. But the ceiling- the ceiling! It was completely transparent, and the night storm raged above them all, silent yet deadly. And at the very end of the hall stood a collection of the weirdest people Sam had ever seen.

From the left, Hagrid stood next to Professor McGonagall, towering over her like some lumbering giant. Next to him, a tall, slender figure cloaked in black with a face darker still quietly sipped on a goblet. From the right, a tiny squeak of a man bumbled up and down, jumping to catch a view of the new students. Next to him stood an old, frazzled lady with a rather bug-like complexion and certainly no shortage of draperies, holding onto an old fellow that had seen far too many limbs lost in whatever magical adventures he had no doubt been on in his youth. But it was the two people at the centre who interested him the most.

One was old, wizened, frazzled, and rather browbeaten. He has the eccentric look of a madman within him, something compounded by his... more... traditional, messy wizard-style robe covered with moons and stars, half-moon spectacles, and a rather broken nose. His eyebrows hung low over his eyes, and his mouth occassionally twitched in a poor approximation of a smile, even as his trembling fingers grasped the eagle-like stand in front of him.

The woman next to him, by comparison, looked like she had walked out of pink wonderland. From head to toe she was clad in pink: jacket, pants, all the way to her pink shoes, carefully decorated with what seemed to be Kittens. Her face was large, toad like, and rather ugly in an almost wretched way, but her deadly smile suggested that Sam would be loathe to tell that to her face. And then the old man at the centre began to speak.

'My, friends, classmates, welcome back to Hogwarts. I hope you have had a most refreshing summer... (here he stopped to cough into his hand) and I am certain that this will be another wonderfully productive year for all of us. It is, indeed, my pleasure to see all of you together... (he coughed again) and allow me to tell you that I find in every one of you great academic potential. It has to be said that my great gratitude towards all of you for continuing to enroll in this institution cannot be expressed in words, and your (loud, wheezing barks) continued trust in the standards of-"

"That will be quite enough, Headmaster Dumbledore." The woman cut in rather rudely, causing nothing but glances between the students. Sam was rather more dismayed. This man was Albus Dumbledore? The one who saved us all from Grindelwald all those years ago? That couldn't be! He looked so... old. So... frail. The woman blathered on about Educational Decrees, but Sam had rather lost his appetite for speeches. That was the man Hagrid said was the hero of the Wizarding World?

Suddenly, he wasn't quite so sure what to make of this school anymore.

After the toad-like woman finished her long and rather boring speech, the students were called up one-by-one to be Sorted. Ron, looking absolutely horrified, was sorted in Gryffindor (something about his family's blood traitor record, the other first years said). Draco Malfoy, the pale blond boy he nearly got into a fight with at Diagon Alley, got into Slytherin with great fanfare. There didn't seem to be many people in Slytherin, and all of them looked at least as snooty as he was. Hermione Granger, the one Ron had predicted would end up in Ravenclaw, proved him right, and ROn himself would, with a look of abject horror, be sorted into Gryffindor. The Gryffindors were a sullen looking bunch, all pale faces and shrunken robes, huddled around their rather pathetic looking table (at least compared to the Slytherin's). None bothered clapping as Sam's friend picked a spot near the Gryffindor ghost, who somehow managed to project an even more dismal aura of death than all of the other ghosts. And then, at last, it was Sam's turn.

"Wright, Samuel, Muggleborn!"

Sniggers, like those for all of the other muggleborns.

Stares, possibly at his tattered robes.

Whispers, barely drowned out by his squeaking second hand sneakers.

And so Sam sat down on a tall stool, and put the Sorting Hat on his head, under the uncaring gaze of the assorted students and teachers.


	9. The Sorting (Part II)

Instantly, a loud, ringing voice began to reverberate in Sam's head.

 _"A fast warning before I bid farewell, evil tidings shall come- I cannot tell._

 _A House divided itself must fall, and Hogwarts has split within the Ministry's thrall._

 _Great dangers come, new terrors arise, these I know not and am not wise._

 _But should you be in time of need, "Lemon Drop"- this phrase you must heed!"_

And, with a flash, as fast as it had come, the words disappeared. In it's place, however, was a far more nasty voice.

"Well hello there, dearie. What have we here?"

It was the voice of the woman at the opening speech, the one who had cut off Headmaster Dumbledore. Up close, her voice sounded even worse, as if someone had turned on a drip of poisoned honey.

"Wh... Er... Who..."

"My dear, you obviously haven't been listening to my _wonderful_ opening speech, were you? Muggleborns like you should really watch out for that, you know. But since this is your first time and you have such an _adorable_ face, why don't we just give it a pass... this time. My name's Umbridge. Dolores Umbridge. And I'm sure we'll have a lovely time together, don't you think?"

No, Sam didn't think so. Not at all.

"Yes, Headmistress Umbridge. I'm... I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't flatter me like that. I'm just a humble Inquisitor... Headmaster Dumbledore's the head of this wonderful school, you know." She didn't sound particularly convinced about that last part.

"Now, my dear, about your house. How about... (The sound of flipping papers) Hufflepuff?"

"Er... okay."

"Perfect. So? HUFFLEPUFF!"

The last part was shouted in one large yell, as if another person had shouted it entirely- as if the hat had shouted it of its own volition.

Impartial, my bottom.

INTERLUDE: THE FEAST

* * *

As he walked over to Hufflepuff house's table, by far the largest crowd of the four, Sam privately wondered how fast it was. There was no choice, no consideration. just a name- and there he was. Seven years' worth of your mates for public schooling, all decided in the space of about 5 seconds. And he wasn't surprised in the slightest. To be sure, he had seen everybody else's Sorting, but, somewhere deep inside, perhaps a part of him had hoped that he would be... better. Special, even. Give the hat some trouble. Maybe get sorted into the underdog house, Gryffindor. But it was with a resigned heart that Sam sat down at the Hufflepuff table. Perhaps he wasn't so different after all.

After the Sorting came the feast. Well, for the Slytherins. They got fancy pudding, roast steaks of every kind, lavish dishes for all. For the Ravenclaws, while not quite as decadent, the meal was still far better than any common dinner, even the ones he'd had in fancy restaurants when he was younger and his parents had more money. The Hufflepuffs got a nice, warm meal, rather similar to the ones his mum used to make, actually. As he dug into some lamb chops, Sam thought that wasn't quite right. No, the meal was certainly a bit more... refined. It tasted fresher, tastier, closer to earth. The Gryffindors got porridge, and little else. He could almost feel Ron's eyes enviously tracking him as he reached for some Yorkshire pudding. When he had more time, he thought, he would investigate where exactly that came from, but for now- there was dessert. Mmm... Strawberry ice cream, his favourite. At least the Hufflepuffs got a few flavours, and ice cream seemed to actually have strawberries in it, which was good.

The Gryffindors got one lemon pop each, and no more.

* * *

After dinner, everyone headed up to the dormitories, where Sam would get his last big surprise that evening. As the long, long line of Hufflepuff first years filed after their prefect, a surly Slytherin called Higgs, they came across what looked like a normal-looking stairwell, only its stairs were moving. Whats more, the corridors and openings around them were constantly changing, with doors slamming shut at certain intervals and other doors appears minutes later, it was mind blowing. They headed roughly downwards, into the basement, where Higgs stopped them as they exited a flight of stairs that hurriedly reconnected to some other group of students, no doubt heading for an about-to-appear location.

Higgs then proceeded to speak in an odd, almost warning tone, his face screwed up in some resemblance of... was that pity? At any rate, his voice certainly betrayed no affection.

"Listen up, you lot o' Muggleborns. Hogwarts is a mean place and if you don't play by the rules, well, lets just say that the school has more than it fair share of nasty things waiting to come upon your poor stinking heads. You might be first years, but that doesn't make you immortal. Here the rules: Don't get caught out of bed after curfew. Don't poke your nose around where it shouldn't be. Don't go within 30 yards of a pureblood unless you absolutely have to. You see anything, keep it to yourself. Umbridge will give you hell any chance she gets, Snape even more so. It's a cruel world, you lot. Now, off to bed, filthy mudbloods!" With that, he fell silent again.

He led them to a stack of barrels near a painting of various fruit. On the second barrel from the bottom, middle of the second row, he tapped out something to the rhythm of "ba-da-ba-da-da", muttering to himself, "Hel-ga Huf-fle-puff." Instantly, one of the barrels slid open, showing a warmly lit corridor.

"Off you go, and if you're not asleep within 10 minutes, I'll personally make sure Snape has your heads."

The corridor, naturally, led to the Common Room. The place was lit with a warm, inviting glow, with a rather circular design. There were stacks and collections of rare herbs and flowers everywhere, and stuffed, comfy-looking armchairs littered the room. Underneath the badger mantlepiece was a picture of one Helga Hufflepuff, founder of the House, and her warm, glowing face was reflected by the many copper furnishings found lying about. The dorms, in contrast, were far smaller, though equally bathed in light. A small fireplace was lit at one end, and Sam found his bed already made with his trunk lying underneath. The furniture, while worn, was far from broken, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Sam felt comfortable outside of home. His bunkmate, a scared boy called Neville Longbottom, had already retired, and Sam proceeded to do so himself, lying on his bed for awhile in pajamas before drifting off into a dark, fitful sleep.


	10. Transfiguration

Sam had yet to open his eyes when the shrill screech cut into his ears, driving whatever peace or even sleepiness remaining straight out of his mind.

"Foul, filthy, odious mudbloods, shame to the name of wizard! Up, up with you lot, and now!"

A rather plump woman was standing in the middle of the round dorm, causing quite a few boys to bolt up in shock. One muttered something suspiciously like "Frogs". Her face was shrill from all the screaming, and her robes were haphazardly arranged in a heap across her body, beaten in the messiness department only by her grey, frazzled hair.

"Sorry dears, I had to do it for old times' sake. Can you believe they used to make us old professors do that every mornin'? Bollocks, I call it. I hope I haven't scared any of you- that would be _awful_." She smiled, a warm and golden grin. "My name is Professor Sprout, and I'm your head of house for as long as you're here."

There was a muffled thump as Neville fell out of his bed straight into Sam's trunk, which was still open and filled with large stacks of both muggle and wizarding books.

"Hello, boy? What's your name?" Professor Sprout said kindly, reaching down to help up the red-faced boy.

"N... Neville, Pro... Professor Sprout."

"You'll be a good boy, I can see it in your eyes. now, lets get a-packing, shall we? You don't want to be late for breakfast."

"But I thought we were already late," Sam said stupidly.

"Not quite, my dear child." She took out her pocket watch. "If you hurry, there's still half an hour left." As she said this, she had a twinkle in her eye.

 _And they thought Hufflepuffs were a lot of duffers._ Sam muttered to himself as he picked out his books. Professor Sprout began giving out lesson timetables, and his read:

* * *

 **TIMETABLE** _of_ **HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

Student: **S. Wright**

Blood status: **MB**

Date: **2nd Sept. 1992** , **MONDAY**

First Lesson: **Transfiguration**

Second Lesson: **Potions (D)**

-Break-

Third Lesson: **English**

Fourth Lesson: **Arithmetic (D)**

-Lunch-

Fifth Lesson: **Defense against the Dark Arts.**

STUDENTS ARE ADVISED NOT TO SHARE THIS TIMETABLE WITH OTHERS

* * *

So now I know what my classes are, Sam thought. Surely it can't be that hard to get to them.

He was wrong.

Every student, as part of their initiation, got a map of the premises. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that said premises were constantly changing. What started as a three-minute trek to the Great Hall became a thirty-minute dodge fest around doors, doors that refused to open, stairs that moved, stairs that slipped up their occupants, and doors pretending to be walls along with vice versa. By the time Sam and the other first years got there, most of the other students had already finished with only ten minutes before their first lesson, Transfiguration. Almost everybody was late, Sam included.

Professor McGonagall (**sniggers**) stood behind a rather polished-looking table, books stacked in neat piles around her. Her face was set in a thin line, with a wrinkled forehead and eagle-like sharp eyes. With one hand, she held their introductory text. With her other, she brandished her thin wand, set nicely against her emerald-green robes.

"Good afternoon, children. I would like to welcome you all to your first class at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Make no mistake, transfiguration will be one of your most important subjects here, and one of the most tricky to master. More skilled wizards than you (pointed glares to the handful that had already taken out their wands and mock-cursing at each other) have made mistakes- and suffered for them- due to moments of carelessness and. Not. Paying. Attention. If you misbehave, you will leave this class and not come back, causing the ministry to deem you as unqualified wizards, with the full repercussions that that implies, especially to all of you... muggle-born children. Do I make myself clear?"

The class fell silent. "Yes, Professor McGonagall."

"Tell me, Justin Finch-Fletchley, why is transfiguration dangerous?"

"Because... you can make anything with it?"

"Half true. Woe betide the wizard who tries to create money from wood. Anything else?"

A girl raised her hand into the air.

"Yes, Ms. Bones."

"Unauthorised transfiguration of any size above Class C is an criminal offense as decreed by the Ministry of Magic under the DMLE Statue of Regulations Against Unauthorised Charms or Unauthorised Spells (RAUCOUS) as established in 1947, with Class C defined as any object, subject or participant under the size of 2 yards (1.8288 metres) in both height, width, and length."

"Thank you, Ms. Bones, but I feel we are skirting the problem here. What makes Transfiguration inherently dangerous, rather than merely a criminal offense? Observe, if you please."

With a single flourish, she turned her desk into a pig and then back.

"Now, children, have I just murdered a pig?"

The entire class exploded into lively debate. Then it clicked. Sam raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Wright. Enlighten us, will you?"

"The danger lies not only in the Transfiguration going wrong during the casting itself by not understanding either to beginning or the end form, but also if it fails to reverse or reverses unsuccessfully. So a desk may be permanently turned into a pig, or be stuck in a transitional form. Overconfident and unethical wizards and can cause catastrophic accidents or disasters with that kind of power, especially when transfiguring living things like humans. There's also something about stray transfigurational energy and retainment of consciousness in regards to living entities, but I didn't quite understand-"

"That will be enough, Mr. Wright, to illustrate my point: You may not transfigure objects into living things. Can anyone tell me something else that transfiguration is forbidden to make?"

The girl called Bones raised her hand again.

"Money."

"Very good. Most counterfeiters believe that money is pure metal, that you could claim that you found a stack of galleons from some ancestral cave and thus triple the size of your vault. That has been false for many years. The goblins have created intricate anti-counterfeiting measures within every single one of their coins, and according to Goblin law, counterfeiters are punishable by immediate execution. While it may seem cruel, this method has been extremely effective in keeping the economy clean. In the past, the laws of transfiguration were codified in such books by scholars such as Gamp, who posited five essential exceptions to transfiguration. Today, we know these exceptions are merely due to the _excellent_ work done at the Department of Mysteries to regulate use of such powerful magic."

"Now, children, please open your books to page five and read Introduction to the Theory of Elementary Transfiguration."

Another boy raised his hand into the air.

"Yes, Mr. Longbottom?"

"My gran says that we're meant to start with a needle..."

"Despite what you may have heard, the Ministry has deemed practical Transfiguration far too difficult, and will not be practised until Year Three."

"But-"

"That is all, Mr. Longbottom. I advise you to keep your silence." Her voice had a warning tone to it.

"Yes, Professor McGonagall."

For awhile, the classroom was filled with the silence of turning pages. Sam felt rather mad. Here he was, at a school for magic, and they weren't even learning magic! Stupid bureaucracy...

He had, naturally, read said introduction already. However, to keep the peace, he decided to instead keep reading.

"...Indeed, transfiguration has been well known as a form of magic most commonly associated with the Dark Arts, including Grindelwald who was seen to have transfigured human bodies in the Nuremberg Massacre of 1946, which was incidential in the establishment of RAUCOUS, one of the modern cornerstones for Magical Law, and a vital part of ensuring continued stability... We regret that such drastic measures have had to be taken in order to prevent the rise of Dark Magic... It is imperative to the continued safety of our magical world that transfiguration be controlled in all aspects by the Ministry, which stands for Justice and Security, to preserve peace... the Ministry prides itself upon stringent regulation to repel the threats against Wizard society... Research has shown, however, that muggle-borns have a clear preference towards Transfiguration-based magicks... Transfiguration being one of the less skilled area of magic, relying more upon pure emotion, most commonly recalled as rage or of such similarity, raising alarming evidence against the magical aptitude of so-called muggle-borns, most likely related to their muggle ancestry... the Ministry has taken decisive steps to stop all such forms of subversive behaviour."

Even magical education was biased towards muggle-borns. Sam quietly began to finger his lightning badge, pinned to the front of his robes. He felt, for the first time, confused.

But then, naturally, the bell rang for his next lesson.


	11. Potions- The Theoretical

"Potions." Sam mumbled to himself has he walked down the corridor. "3 floors down, the dungeons. Dungeons? This place has dungeons? Boy, I hope they've got monsters in them- got knows Umbridge deserves-OOF!"

He had walked into Ron. Falling on the floor, Sam's (second-hand) book bag split with a thunderous crack, throwing him books across the tiled floor. Students skirted them as they walked past, and Sam felt glad that he had been sensible and packed a ballpoint pen instead of getting a fancy-looking jar of ink and quill.

"Well hello, Sam. How's your first lesson?"

"Er... Transfiguration was fine, I guess. I mean, Professor McGonagall seems really good at it- pity we won't be learning any until third year."

"What? THIRD YEAR?"

"Didn't you have transfiguration as well?"

"No, I had... blimey, what was it... History of Magic."

"Sounds interesting." Sam said, picking up his books.

"Trust me, it isn't" Ron muttered darkly. " You know who teaches it? Professor Binns. They say that his voice's enchanted to make you fall asleep..." He mimed waving his hands around in a spooky fashion. "The 19... 45... treaty... of... whatchamacallit... was... of... great..." He yawned.

"Huh." Sam mumbled absentmindedly. He was thinking about something.

"Ron, do you think the Slytherins learn Transfiguration early?"

Silence.

"I guess. It's said to be awfully tricky though. Hope Malfoy blows off his head by accident. D'you know what lesson you're going to next?"

"Potions."

"Great, I've got potions too! Fancy we're doubling?"

"Well, it says "D" next to mine-" Sam mumbled, unfurling the paper.

"You've still got your timetable?" Ron looked incredulous.

"Of course! Who doesn't?" Now it was Sam's turn to be befuddled.

"I used mine for paper broomstick practice. Here..." He ruffled around his own worn satchel, pulling out a scruffy-looking paper airplane, on which was clearly printed "Nae: Rn Wsley". Sam laughed.

"That's a paper aeroplane, Ron!"

"What's an aeroplane?"

Sam was at a loss for words. "Well, it's this thing where... Ah, forget it. Wait, is this the.."

Somehow, they'd already arrived at the dungeons, and the teacher in front of them didn't look happy.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Or should I say good afternoon? You seem intent on arriving as late as possible. Or is it true that muggleborns (he pointed at Sam's badge) have no respect for their teachers? Hmm?"

"I... I'm sorry, sir." Sam mumbled dejectedly. Next to him, he could hear Ron doing the same.

"Tut tut, that just won't do." His voice grew sharp, and he wheeled to face them, his finger pointing at them authoritatively. "What are your names?"

"Sam... Samuel Wright."

"Ron Wea... Weasley."

The teacher gave a nasty grin. "A muggleborn and a Weasley. What a pair! Do come in, gentlemen. Allow the class to see what a fine example of wizardry you are."

Inside the dark, dimly lit dungeon, the group of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors seemed to grimace, as if something unpleasant was to be approaching.

"Children, please, quieten down. Now, what have we here? These two (A flourish) have deemed themselves important enough to not be constrained by such pitiful things as timetables! I say we give them the welcome they... deserve. How about... 20 points a piece? No? 30 points it is then. 30 points from both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, on their very first day- aren't the two of you proud of yourselves?"

The classroom was shocked into silence. More than a few glares appeared, mixed with perhaps a touch of pity. Then again, they _had_ just lost 30 points.

"Sit down, the two of you, and make sure you are not late again. Next time, Mr. Wright and Mr. Weasely, the results will be slightly more... _unpleasant_." The last word, dripping with venom, came out as a hiss. Sam and Ron ran to their seats amid the murmurs of their agitated fellows, and the teacher assumed his position at the front of the class, his stained black robes billowing behind him as if the wings of a giant bat. He, Sam knew instantly, was the Potions Master, Professor Snape from Hogwarts: A History's current staff section. His gaunt, sallow face and dark, merciless eyes were recognisable anywhere, and the glowing vials of potions behind him, eerie shades of red and green and luminous yellow, didn't help either.

"Now that we have finished with... housekeeping, we may move on with the proper lesson. What do you know about potion making?"

Sam didn't dare raise his hand, and neither did anyone in the class.

"No one?" Snape lifted an eyebrow. "I take the liberty of choosing at random then. You!" One pale finger flicked towards a dark-skinned boy, quivering with fear.

"What is your name?"

"Dean. Dean Thomas... professor."

"Talk then, Mr. Thomas. What do you know about the art of potion brewing?" A thin veneer of a smile reached his lips, but his eyes remained distant as ever.

"Well... Um... I... er... You stir ingredients and... you... boil them over a cauldron?"

"Excellent answer... for a five year old. Any child could tell you that was all it required- no, I am asking for a more... in depth explanation. Is anyone else interested, perhaps?"

His greasy stare was met with even more quivering silence.

"It pains me to talk to you uninspired fools. Very well. You!"

His finger fell on Ron, who looked as if he was about to be sick.

"Go on then. Enlighten us all, since you clearly didn't think coming to class on time was a priority."

"I guess... (A feeble grab at his books) A... fine art of dedication... to... ahem... quality within..."

"Thought you didn't need to open the books before you came, did you? Thought you were smart enough, no? Tut tut. Clearly, blood isn't everything, Mr. Weasely. Five points from Gryffindor, and be glad it isn't more."

At this, Ron's face burned fiercely, and his hands curled into fists.

"Sit down, lest you waste any more of our precious time. Who shall be next... aha! Mr. Wright. The other half of our dynamic duo. Go on, give us a few words."

The entire class looked on with unabashed horror as Sam stood up, shaking mightily.

 _You've read the books, you can do this... You've read the books..._

"Speak, or I start deducting points."

"Po... Potion making... is the fine fart- sorry... art... of compositing mul...multiple ingredients in a... sequence to unlock inn... innate magical abilities. Uses include... er... healing... combat... in-"

"Stop. Witheringly boring, dreadfully dull, copied from the beginning of your book, no less. If I wanted a recitation, I would have looked for a muggle."

"But-"

"Sit down. Ten more points from Hufflepuff, for daring to speak back- be glad it isn't more."

Anger was rapidly taking over his fear. As he sat down, his fists, too, were clenched.

"Any more than this," Ron muttered, "And your house's gonna kill you."

"Not to mention yours." A few tables over, people were throwing them not-so-subtle and not-so-friendly glances, and Sam was glad he was still relatively unknown.

"So, it appears that this class will be just as a pack of imbeciles as before. I had hopes that this fine new batch would be... ah... an _asset_ to the wizarding community, but it seems that this class will have to go the same way as the last. Very well."

"As Mr. Wright has slow kindly informed us, potion making is the art of combining multiple ingredients in a sequence to create liquids with magical abilities. Kindly take out your cauldrons."

The class, as a whole, reached down and brought up several miniature, shrunken down cauldrons, gingerly placing them on the potions tables.

"Now, had you followed the instructions sent to you at the beginning of the year, the cauldron should expand with the following incantation. _Open Swift_!"

" _Open Swift_!"

" _Op... en S...wift_?"

" _Open Open Swift_!"

" _Open Swiftt-OW_!"

" _Open Swift_!"

" _Ooopennn Ssssswiffft-_ "

It wasn't a pretty sight. Luckily, Sam's cauldron swelled predictably, and he'd been able to duck the misfires from Ron and Neville. It took several tries for everyone to get theirs open, and several students had swollen lips. Snape then waited for the chaos to end, before speaking as if he was merely mildly annoyed by the chaos.

"You will, I am sure, notice that this incantation fails to work on any object other than your cauldrons. This is, naturally, not a true engorgement charm, since it is clearly beyond your level, but merely a simple command Charmed into the cauldron meant for... _less able_ students. A true engorgement charm, as you will see here, is spoken as thus. _Engorgio_!"

The cauldron on Snape's desk grew smoothly, without a hitch, until it was standard size.

"Now, due to the unfortunate interventions caused by our two... _celebrities_ , we are rather short of time, so I shall allow you to brew a simple Cure for Boils. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through the human veins, bewitching the minds, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach. The examples, as you will soon see, are on the board."

With another flick of his wand, a long list of instructions appeared on the board.

"And, to give you extra motivation, anyone who fails to brew this potion to at least an acceptable level by the end of this lesson will lose their house five points. You have fourty minutes- begin."

At once, the fiercely chattering class was silenced with the long, hurried sounds of students opening ingredient pouches.


	12. Potions- The Practical

At once, the fiercely chattering class was silenced with the long, hurried sounds of students opening ingredient pouches.

"Snake fangs-horned slugs-porcupine quills..."

"My pestle, my pestle, where's my pestle-"

"Gah! The horned slugs..."

Harry stared at his slightly pickled and worn ingredients. Several cracked fangs, a few preserved dead horn slugs, and a handful of dull-looking porcupine quills. He picked up his pestle, a dark, grubby looking thing, with a slippery handle and worn grip. "So... I just take this and..."

With a powerful slam, he brought it down upon the snake fang, which skittered away in a flash, hitting Ron, who screamed. Mortified, he picked up the snake fang and tried again, with no result. Snape, meanwhile, had turned his back to the class and seemed to be sleeping.

"Typical Snape..." Ron muttered as he gingerly picked up his pestle filled with half-crushed snake fang, dropping it into the cauldron- resulting in a dull thump.

"What the..."

"WHERE'S THE WATER?"

After a few minutes of frantic searching along with most of the class, it was discovered that one of the dark-looking knobs at the front of the tables automatically filled the nearest cauldron, and a second knob lighted (and controlled the heat of) the fire. A third, marked red, was clearly meant for emergencies. Sam turned back to his now nearly perfectly crushed fangs. Dropping them in the fast boiling cauldron and heating them briefly, he prayed that he hadn't wasted too much time- he had to wait for the potion to brew for 33 minutes at the least. The wait began...

"Five minutes left."

Sam turned back in horror as he realised that his potion had begun bubbling over. Quickly dropping in he slimy slugs with his second-hand gloves, he was greatly relieved as the potion returned to an at least stir-able level. Now to take the cauldron off the fire...

"GAHHHHHH!"

Neville had tried to drop in his porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire, causing it to give off a sharp smell and boil over in a rather climactic boom and shrill shriek. In a flash, Snape, who had taken to silently prowling the classroom when the chatter had grown too much, reached over and twisted the red knob once, hard, before Sam could even think of doing anything.

A shield instantly burst into the existence around the cauldron, freezing it in mid-blast. As Snape retrieved his hand and performed the incantation to drain the cauldron, Sam noted (with great irony) that his hand was covered in boils.

With gritted teeth, Snape turned towards Neville, who was covering in fear. "You, boy, ten points from Hufflepuff for failing to read. Did you not read the insructions? Read line eight to me."

"Line... Eight... Take the cauldron off the fire... before adding the next ingredient."

"Well? As far as I can unfortunately see, the cauldron is very much on. the. fire. Had you been brewing a draught of Living Death, the entire class would have been poisoned. With Amortentia, the entire class would have been overcome with an uncontrollable urge to find those that you love- it serves as a rather effective chemical weapon, I hear. Silence! Potion brewing is not the art of impressive looking flashes of light, but I can assure you that it is far, far more dangerous than that. I have heard one story, of a wizard who made this exact mistake with felix felicis in the presence of a Time-Turner- the area in which he worked is known by Muggles as the Bermuda Triangle, the Triangle of Death."

So that's where the Bermuda Triangle came from. Sam was rather impressed. At the same time, however, he deeply hoped that Wizards never went to war- he wasn't sure what might be left if they did.

"For the rest of you not entire imbeciles, you have one minute left. Continue."

Turning furiously back to his potion, Sam lifted the heavy cauldron up, gingerly adding the porcupine quills before placing it on- waving his wand- and done. And while it wasn't entirely the clear shade of blue the instructions had suggested, it was certainly close enough. Next to him, Ron's potion had turned a sickly yellow, and was giving off a strong stench of _huevos providos_ \- rotten eggs.

"Y'already done, mate?"

"Yeah. I wonder why he still isn't dealing with the boil on his arm, though. Surely he can-"

"And time is up. Quiet- place down your wands and stirring rods. Those who are still holding ingredients, you may place them in a secure location, provided you understand what that means."

There was the nervous shuffling of most of the class placing away their unfinished ingredients. To Sam's immense surprise, only a few students had completed it, and none of them had gotten as close as he had.

"Well well well. I was hoping to pick randomly from your potions to sample, but it seems that only three of you have brewed it to an acceptable level to be used. Stand up, Wright, Macmillan, and Finch-Fletchley. The rest of you may twist the second knob on your seats to smother the fire- all of you have lost five points for your house. Disgraces. Now, who should I choose from to see if my boils disappear as promised... Ah. Mr. Macmillan- 1 quarter blue, with lightly pink smoke. Shall we?"

From his hip, he produced a potions-flask, dipping it in the cauldron and retrieving a sizeable portion of murky blue solution. Behind the cauldron, the boy known as Ernie Macmillan quivered with fear. Snape took a deep sniff.

"As you can see, class, the smoke of such a potion is meant to taste of slug extract and porcupine with a shade of dried snake poison, nullified by the combination of slug slime and porcupine spike. In short, a most impressive combination of odours. Instead, this tastes of (another sniff) copper and... mint. How do you explain that, Mr. Macmillan?"

"Well... I have a lucky coin... A penny my parents brought home from America..."

"Give me that."

As the boy gingerly handed over the coin, Snape tucked it into his pocket with a smooth flick. As the boy's face showed dawning horror, Snape began to speak.

"There will be no contaminants within the creation of a potion. A fleck of metal may turn a healing draught into extreme poison. What one percieves to be a harmless leaf can be deadly under the right circumstances. See me after class, and five points from Hufflepuff. My, Hufflepuff is having quite the day, is it not?"

As the evil potions master stalked away from the boy who was quivering with fear, Snape approached the second boy rapidly.

"And you, Mr. Finch-Fletchley. Let me see your potion."

Once again, he took a deep sniff.

"How many porcupine quills have you added into the mixture?"

"Two... Three. Three, Professor Snape."

"Can none of you read? Too many porcupine quills disturbs the delicate balance of potions. Instead of mediating the two ingredients, the quills will merely overpower them. Observe."

In one motion, Snape took a quaff from the draught. As the class watched with a mixture of fascination and horror, the boils on his arm first swelled, then shrunk- but did not disappear.

"I am disappointed, Mr. Finch-Fletchley. Five points from Gryffindor. And now we move on to... Mr. Wright. Do you have what it takes?" The last words came out in a smooth purr, and Snape seemed to cross the length of the room in no distance at all.

"Three-quarters blue, a touch of green. Strong pink smoke. Most convincing. And now..."

As Sam watched, Snape dipped his long, greasy nose in front of the softly bubbling cauldron, taking in the lighting rising puffs of smoke. There was a long, nervous silence.

"Barely appropriate- you place too much faith in your stirring rod, Wright. I would deduct one point for that, but allow me to try your... cure."

He took one long drink. For quite awhile, nothing happened.

Sam was doomed.

"Too much water, Wright. In short, a failure. Five points-"

As if by magic, the boils on his arm shrunk, and then disappeared, one by one.

"Hmm. Most impressive. it seems that I cannot deduct more points from you today- most demoralising."

"Thank you, sir."

"One point for cheek. It seems that I will not leave unfulfilled after all. The rest of you may pack up. Mr. Macmillan..."

But Sam thoughts were lost to the tide of rage. He had done it! All of it! And Snape had still deducted points! As Sam furiously turned the water knob to drain the cauldron, Ron said sadly next to him, "At least he tried yours. "

"Fat lot of good that did."

"Well, there's break time, so let's find our next classes, shall we?"

"Sure," Sam said with a grunt as he fit the now shrunk cauldron (the incantation was _Close Swift_ , naturally) into his bag, and left the dungeons. Snape's eyes trailed them out.


	13. On the Musings of the English Language

**A.N.:** I have a confession to make- I enjoy writing Professor Blunderburne far too much than is probably healthy. Also, the intro basically ends here. Next lesson- DA. :) Enjoy the break while you can.

* * *

"Common English for the Young Wizard, 1990 M.G.E."

"That's weird, mine says P.B.E."

"I don't think that's a coincidence- see? _Intended for the Use and Application of Muggle-born children ONLY. Pureblood children may consider the revised P.B.E. Edition._ "

"That's a bummer."

"I know, right? It's almost as if its a symbol of systematic oppression... nah, it can't be (Ron didn't get this)."

"Well, I says I have to turn right down the stairs here- nope, just turned left. Alright, see you later."

"See you."

With another silent sigh, Sam headed into the bustling classroom, filled to the brim with golden lightning bolts. Their teacher, an old, worn husk of a fellow, looked up as the last students pile into the dark, dimly lit room. The windows were covered in musty cobwebs, and the walls were filled with the forgotten scribbles of several generations of students, some of which included such literate statements as "DOWN WIT TH MOM" and "LONG LV FR D AND GR G". Personally, Sam was rather interested in meeting misters "FR. D." and "GR. G."- but that was not the point now, for the teacher, an ancient, wrinkled creature wearing long, stiff grey robes, had stepped onto the crumbling ancient oak wood lectern- the only one he had seen so far.

"Good afternoon, children. First of all, I would like to introduce myself. While the teachers roster lists myself as one Professor Blunderburne (He painstakingly spelled the name out on the blackboard), the 'e' implied with the elongated sound, it is, as a matter of fact, spelled B-L-U-N-D..."

Sam's head hit the table and didn't wake up until the lesson was over.


	14. Defence Against the Dark Arts

A wide, vaulted hall. The ceiling higher than seemed humanly possible. From wall to wall, the ancient marble pillars and stone facades were scarred with the forgotten shadows of a thousand battles- sections of wall burnt, holes missing from the ancient domed ceiling. The floor itself was covered in a mosaic pattern that seemed to change every time you looked at it, the faded stone etched with the footsteps of a thousand students. The air itself, it seemed, was grey today- so was everything else in the room. From the desks to the carved Hogwarts coat-of-arms (Draco dormiens nunquat titillandus- Sam resolved to find the translation for that), everything seemed to be cracked, old, and worn. But it was not the kind of wear that would make a magical house seem in shambles, or a gilded mansion fall into despair- no, by the contrary, it seemed to give the hall a feeling of strength, a unique quality that came with the sort of battles that had been fought here- a sort of majesty. Yes, majesty was the word.

This was the Hogwarts Defence Against Dark Arts Hall of Instruction.

Their teacher, shrouded in shadow, was standing on top of a small, grey pedestal, dwarfed by the massive shield behind him(or was it her?), braced on two sides by twin pillars of marble with blazing torches planted on them. But it wasn't the torches that gave the room it's light. At the very top of the dome, a massive THING, glowing with light, dressed with the symbols of unknown power, inscribed with stranger patterns. Words began to float to Sam's mind. Durmstrang, Beauxbaton, Illvermony, Mahoutokoro, Castelobruxo, Uagadou, Hogwarts... It was a mesmerising sight. He had no idea words the words meant, of course, but if you stared hard enough, you could just begin to see a map-

"CLASS! To attention, please."

Sam woke up from his daydream, and looked around the small, dingy classroom hastily labelled "Room 31: DADA Y1" on his map. Several brass cages of unknown application dangled from the patched, leaky ceiling, the few torches that worked cast a flickering light, and the tables and chairs. far from being made of magically polished marble, were merely held together by shoddy craftsmanship and possibly a charm of Mending or two. Their teacher, a most pompous looking man possessing of a most disastrous fashion sense, had chosen on this merry occasion to wear a brightly coloured, multilayered set of robes that made him look like a walking commercial more than anything- not that he would know what a commercial was, but still. His mouth, perpetually frozen in a ridiculous smile, was only outmatched in eagerness by his eyes, which seemed to never rest. here was a man who had great dreams, and far too much empty space in his brain to dream said dreams.

"Well well well, I must say, I'm most pleased to see all of you here to day. Remind me again, you are... Yes! Hufflepuff! Don't bother raising your hand, I would have never forgotten it. And I assume you all already know me?"

A sea of silent faces, followed by half-hearted attempts to look for his name.

"No one? no one knows your poor Defence Professor? Most experienced professor at Hogwarts? Anybody? ANY ONE?"

The silence grew even more embarrassing.

"Well, that's a right shame. I suppose I'll just have to introduce myself- I'm Lockhart. Gilderoy Lockhart- that's Professor Lockhart to you. One time winner of the Witches Weekly's Most Charming Smile award, professional writer (Sam hadn't seen a single one of his books in the bookstores at Daigon Alley), and your first-year Defence Professor." His smile, if it were possible, became even more bright, showing off a set of impeccably polished teeth- and nothing else. His face had a sort of self-ascribed glamour to it, the type you'd find with people who would talk about everything they've accomplished in their lives while wearing a run-down T-shirt from god knows where and smelling heavily of poorly brewed beer from the local pub. As the class watched in a mixture of trepidation and pity, the teacher stepped forward to reach for his books- and tripped on the ends of his overly long robes, falling in an undignified heap on the floor.

"Well- Sorry about that- Back to the class. If you will all open your books- (flipping) you will find that I have also taken the liberty of creating an educational text compatible with my high standards, given to all of you for the fair price of one galleon. Now, I would like you to begin reading chapter one: The Many Accomplishments of Gilderoy Lockhart."

It said something about a man when his own introduction took up an entire chapter of a textbook he'd written.

Being an avid reader, Sam had, naturally finished the book far before anyone else in Hufflepuff. What was interesting, however, was that even those wo had clearly never seen the book before finished the first chapter with extreme speed, and within five minutes the class waited expectantly for his next instruction. Seeming rather surprised, their alleged "professor" would then spend the rest of the class giving them what amounted to a personality quiz.

"Question One: How did Gilderoy Lockhart, defeat..."

"...Describe the circumstances in which Mr. Lockhart..."

"... _Gadding with Ghouls_ , three examples of Gilderoy Lockhart's ingenuity are given..."

"...Mr. Lockhart's greatest wish?"

"...his many inventions, Mr. Lockhart is most proud of..."

"Question Thirty: Why is Gilderoy Lockhart the greatest wizard ever?"

Needless to say, very little defence instruction against whatever amounted to a "dark art" was given in the lesson, unless the dark forces referred to people who didn't understand the greatness of Gilderoy Lockhart. "Professor" Lockhart finished the lesson with merely an assignment to read chapters two to five, all of which were advertisements for his (probably non-existent) achievements in fighting against the Dark Forces.

* * *

"What a bloody joke," Sam muttered as he left the classroom.

"What, Defence?"

"What else?"

"What's your next lesson?"

"Funny, mine doesn't say-"

"Hmm... Gimme a sec."

Ron briefly tapped Sam's wand against the parchment, showing...

 _All members of Hufflepuff house due for mandatory introduction session._

"Huh. Introduction session- more like indoctrination session, judging by the way they've made this place. Look at this!" Sam pointed at an elaborate inscription upon the wall, almost like wizard graffiti.

 **WIZARDS! Defend yourselves- do not buy from MUGGLE-BORNS!***

"How is this legal?!" Sam's face was livid.

"Well... I hear the blood supremacists regularly put this up, and Filch just "forgets" (air-quotes) to take them down again. We're supposed to be equals, you know." Ron seemed far more uncomfortable than Sam was. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"Aren't you lucky. Of all the things I could be, why must I be sunk with the magic nazi analogue underdog race? Can't _I_ be the master race for once?"

"Wait, are you talking about your muggle history again? Hey, you never got to telling me who the bad guy leading the nazis was!"

"Well... It's a long story... You see.. there was this guy..."

...

"YOU MEAN GINDELWALD IS HITLER?!"

* * *

* Here is a sample slogan I made in illustrator: HERE .

And here is the original inspiration: HERE. (Poster text: GERMANS! DEFEND YOURSELVES! Do not buy from Jews!)


	15. Nightfall

It was the end of Sam's first day at Hogwarts. Subdued and rather sleepy, he sat with the rest of Hufflepuff house, that largest and most often ignored, in a small, huddled group in the Great Hall, underneath the floating candles that had begun to gently glow as the afternoon drew to a close. Above them, the lightly glowing orange sky seemed to indicate the setting of the daystar, and Sam wondered whether the lightly etched ceiling actually kept the wind out, or if temperature changes outside affected the temperature inside. Hmm... As he considered this, the Number One Undesirable of Hogwarts climbed the podium, her grubby fingers clutching the golden eagle stand as if a vice.

"Good afternoon, children. I see that you have all brought your badges- how nice!" She smiled once more, a sickening look. "Oh, I cannot say how happy I am to see all of your little faces here, so obedient and quiet, such exemplars of-"

"DIEEEEE UMBRIDGEEEEEEE!"

Before she could say much more, a loud, angry creature dropped onto the Inquisitor's head, and promptly took off attempting to steal her many, many gold rings. As the onlookers watched in horror, an even larger, almost vampire-like form took off from where it had been concealed in the ceiling, cleverly disguised as a cloud. As the thing landed, Sam realised it was a student, clad in a cloak. Smiling, the young rascal took off his cape.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, kids! The niffler was courtesy of the Gryffindor Rebel Alliance, we're located everywhere they can't see and everywhere they can. The names' Rodent- no, Rapier, by the way- gotta run!"

"STOP HIM!" Umbridge, who'd just managed to get the scrabbling creature off her hands, began to blast the rather furry looking monster with multiple rather nasty looking charms until it began to spit out all of her rings- in the 5 seconds in which Fred had made his introduction, the thing had somehow managed to rob her clean. Instantly, the five burly Slytherins stationed around the room dashed off, but the boy was long gone.

Neville looked at Sam in shock. "Who was that?!"

"Gryffindors, I'm pretty sure. So stupid- but so cool!" Sam couldn't quite help himself on that last one. "I bet Ron's really proud. I wish I had house-mates like that." A stare. "Not that you're anything bad, of course," he added hurriedly.

"You know Ron Weasley?" Neville didn' seem very interested in any insults, intended or not.

"Yeah, why not-"

"YOU KNOW A WEASLEY?! That's like, like Crucio material!"

"What do you mean-"

But by then Umbridge had restored order, putting on her last ring- a blood red ruby, encrusted with a strange symbol undecipherable from a glance. Looking obviously dishelved, her thorny fingers grasped the lectern once more.

"Now, now, settle down. Rest assured, the perpetrator will be brought to justice- At Hogwarts, we do _not_ tolerate such _disobedience_! If any of you here choose to follow in this idiotic course of "resistance", rest assured, you will envy his fate when your time comes. Now, how about we get on with this _exciting_ talk!"

Afterwards, as Sam left the hall, Ron walked up to him.

"So," Ron said, "How was Umbridge?"

"It's really amazing, how scary a person can be while dressed in all pink and talking about fluffy cats and rainbows."

"I take it it didn't go well?"

"Er... Hey, do you happen to know anyone who goes by the name of Rapier, or Rodent, and is a Gryffindor..."

As it turns out, Ron was going to be a very interesting friend to have at Hogwarts.

* * *

Letter Home #1:

Dear Mum and Dad,

Just finished my first day at Hogwarts. Don't know how to mail this, but hopefully it'll find you by, I don't know, teleport-mail by the end of the week. Apparently, the magical world also has an equivalent of the Second World War, where this guy called Grindelwald was Hitler, and apparently all muggle-borns are Jews. No, I think they stepped down a bit since then. I hear that the principal was in charge of the sod's downfall- pity he's going senile and the school's run by a dictator the scale of Mussolini. Then again, I'm pretty sure the principal's somewhere around 200 years old, so you really can't blame him for allowing the entire correctional system to be run by... what's the word... sadists. The teachers are pretty good, however, and potions seems to be shaping up to be the most interesting so far, followed by transfiguration, where you actually turn rabbits into hats. I can't stay for much longer, I think it's bedtime. Night!

Yours.

Sam

* * *

 **AN:** Thus concludes part one- part two begins soon.


	16. Charms

"On the directed application of magic," Professor Flitwick said to the stupefied class, "and its uses in situations theoretical and practical. Turn to page 5."

It was early in the morning and Sam was already nearly bored to death. As he'd expected, the Ministry mandated curriculum seemed intent on keeping them as far away from their wands as possible while still technically qualifying as teaching "magic". The professor wasn't helping matters- a small, wizened old man, Professor Flitwick, too, seemed as bored as he was, and the rest of the class seemed ready to snore.

"For today's lesson, we shall be covering the introduction from page 5 to 10. Now, from what I understand, you have had very little experience with wand-work, yes? (Vigorous nods) Hmm..." For a second, the professor became silent. And then, as if struck by a burst of energy, the little man spoke once more.

"Very well. Since charms is somewhat less dangerous than transfiguration, and I still have to teach, how about we spend the first half of the lesson looking at the ministry-mandated curriculum, and the rest for a little... wandwork?"

Cheers arose from the class of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws (The Slytherins were off on flying lessons, which they had one more than the rest of the houses did per fortnight) as the children dug out their resting wands, eager to try their hands at some actual spells for once.

"Now, now, children. We still have half a lesson of proper teaching to cover- it wouldn't do you any good to fail the end-of-year Charms exams, you know. Alright, back to the subject at hand. How do we direct magic?"

An unfamiliar hand rose to the fore by the girl sitting next to Sam- _Hermione Granger_ , he realised with a shock. Her lightning badge pinned high on her polished blue robes, she looked as eager as one could possibly be on such a boring question.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"We direct magic through the use of spells, charms, and transfiguration."

"Very good, very good. Right out of the book, that one. Two points to Ravenclaw."

Hermione beamed happily, causing Sam to feel a savage urge to answer the next question before her, if only to quench that smile from her face. He knew that answer, of course... right?

"Next question. Why are wands not mentioned as a direction?"

This time Sam's hand shot first, before even Hermione's. She seemed quite shocked, and Sam took the chance to smile at her.

"Mr. Wright?"

"The wand merely functions as a medium, not a method. Accomplished wizards may perform feats of wandless magic and use charms and spells in much the same way. Quite similar, in fact, to the phenomenon of magical outbursts seen in pre-Hogwarts children who cannot yet control their magic, though far more precise, of course."

"Wonderful! That last part was not in the curriculum, but you are indeed correct. They are quite similar, though one loses that ability rather quickly once one learns to use a wand. Two points to Hufflepuff." But Sam wasn't done yet.

"Why is that, sir? Why do we lose the ability to, say, use spontaneous magic to soften our fall when we trip, or jump over gaps we otherwise can't?" Sam was rather enjoying himself now.

"Hmm... I will have to consider that question..." He paused. "You see, in refining and directing our magic through wands, and, yes, wandless magic, we seem to lose the ability to produce it by sheer force of strength alone. The parts of our minds that focus magic become accustomed to channeling it through words, gestures, and magical mediums, and lose the ability to push it out as a force. It is a shame, yes, but to be fair, there are few cases on accidental magic from those any more than thirty years of age, so such outbursts may not have continued at any rate."

"Something about puberty, maybe?"

"I'm not sure what you mean by that."

"I mean, if your brain is pruning useless neural connections during puberty, you might just lose the ability to channel magic altogether if you only use those magic-governing neural paths in specific circumstances, unless you learn to focus the power before then and ingrain the neural pathways... All this assuming that magic is governed by brains, of course. With any luck, the true origins of magic will be from, er, house-elves. (He wasn't quite sure if they were a joke or not)"

To his immense surprise, Professor Flitwick picked up on that last bit. "Now that you mention it, house-elves do process extraordinary magical abilities, even if I doubt they are the source of magic. As for the rest, I'm afraid I do not understand muggle ways very well." (Hermione seemed quite shocked at this, and looked at Sam with a look of supreme disbelief)

"Don't worry, sir. It's just a bit of muggle nonsense."

"I see."

And the rest of the class passed without incident.

"Now, on to the practice of Charms. You shall start with something simple. Let's see..." He opened a large, thick looking book of charms, flipping to the beginning rapidly. "A levitation charm will do. Allow me to demonstrate." He picked out a feather, setting it on his desk. With a tap, the blackboards now showed a close-up of his hand in chalk, with the words "Levitation Charm" above in bold, white letters.

"This is a very basic charm. You perform it as thus. First, the motion- (He raised his hand, mirrored by the blackboard's chalk hand) Swish. Flick. Swish. Flick. (The class followed, noticing the feathers on their own desks) Swish. Flick. And now, the incantation: Wingardium Leviosa!"

And the feather floated slowly upwards form the table.

This was followed, naturally, by the rest of the class also trying the incantation, to various degrees of failure.

Sam looked at his feather, sitting innocently on the dusty old table.

 _This can't be hard_ , he thought. Hermione's one was already twitching.

This can't be hard.

"Wi-Wingardium, Wingardium leviosa!"

Nothing. Even _saying_ it felt silly.

He tried again "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Still nothing. by now, Hermione was getting hers to stand on one end.

"WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!"

The feather remained unmoved.

He couldn't ask for help. This should be easy- even the other children's feathers were showing signs of progress.

"Wingardium Leviosa- Wingardium Leviosa- wingardium leviosa- wingardium leviosa- ARGH!"

But by then, Professor Flitwick had seen Hermione's floating feather, and given her another 3 points to Ravenclaw. Sam felt flustered. He had to ask. He couldn't be the only one to end the lesson without _anything_ , could he?

"Hermione?"

"Yes?" She was smiling. Brightly too.

"Can- can I ask for help?" There's no shame in learning... there's no shame in learning...

"Sure! What's your name?"

"S-Sam. Sam Wright."

"That's a nice name. Now, show me how you're saying it."

"Wing... Wingardium Leviosa."

"You're pronouncing the words wrong. It's meant to be Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

Sam tried it- the feather was twitching this time.

"Th-thanks, Hermione."

"No problem, Sam. Yes?" And Hermione had rushed off to help other Hufflepuffs who had trouble with the charm.

This was embarrassing, Sam thought. He tried again. "Win-garrr-dium. Levi-o-sa." Two twitches. He was getting the hang of this.

Their homework, naturally, was to practice the charm for next lesson, as well as reading pages 10 to 20. On the way out, Sam caught up to Hermione.

"Hey, thanks for the help."

"No problem."

"What d'you have next?"

"Transfiguration."

"Oh, well, I have potions. See you!"

"Bye!" And the girl rushed off to her next class. Sam, meanwhile, went looking for Ron- Potions was a double class, and he heavily doubted that he would be with the Slytherins.


	17. Humans of Hogwarts

There was one mystery in Hogwarts. One he could never decipher. Sure, the common room was convenient, but Hogwarts was bloody huge last time he checked. And some of the classrooms had become large enough to warrant it, but seriously. Especially on the higher levels, Hogwarts was a maze of not quite certain pathways, and that gave rise to a very large problem.

"Where. On. Earth. Are. The. TOILETS?!"

Sure, there were the few staples on the lower floors. But the higher one went, the more reluctant Hogwarts was to commit to a certain floor plan- and the map didn't show lavatories. It was just after Transfiguration, and he was bursting. In his frustration, he turned to one of the innumerable paintings on the walls.

"Hello? Er... Anyone there?"

The portrait of a rather talkative witch with long blonde hair turned to stare at the eleven-year old.

"Hello there, young man. Don't you know it's rude to interrupt? (She seemed to be talking to another portrait, but Sam had thought that it was just a magical idle slide, what the portraits played on loop when no one was looking just for a lark- apparently they were actual people.)"

"Well... Can you tell me where the nearest toilet is?"

"Well," and here the portrait smiled, "I'm not quite sure. You might find, if you ask me politely, that I might just remember a little more- I'm afraid my memory is quite (sigh) faulty."

That painting.

"I'm terribly, terribly sorry, but can you PLEASE tell me where the closest lavatory is?"

"Well, I might just- oh, I'm afraid I've forgotten again. I'm terribly sorry as well (Another smile), hm?"

THAT. BLOODY. PAINTING.

"I am awfully, truly, sorry, to bother your undulating highness on this TINY issue, but if, you, could, in your, everlasting, grace, find some time, to, tell, me, WHERE THE TOILET IS?"

"Now that's more like it: there's one just down the hallway if you turn the corner."

And there was.

"BLOODY HELL!"

"Language!"

* * *

"Want to play some wizard chess?" Ron asked. It was lunch, and they had a couple of minutes before their next lesson.

"Sure, what's wizard chess?"

"It's like muggle chess, only you can order your troops around like a real general."

"So how does the wizard move? What spells can you use? Are you allowed to get them to use transfiguration?"

"Er... I don't think there's a wizard, Sam. I mean, there's a castle, knight, king, queen, bishop, pawn... No wizard there."

"So you just adopted muggle chess wholesale?"

"Sort of, I guess. I've never questioned it before."

"But weren't there, like, Persian wizards? Shouldn't you have gotten the Persian version of Wizard chess instead?"

"What?"

"Chess sorta comes from Persia, y'know."

"Persia?"

"Yeah... look its really complicated but chess as a game has roots in a place called Persia. And its kind of stupid to play muggle chess when you could wipe out armies like these in a heartbeat with some explosive spell."

"Huh. I guess... But chess is fun like this! Here, I'll show you."

And Ron dumped out a set of grumpy looking pieces, moaning and stretching their arms.

"YOU MEAN THEY'RE SENTIENT?! AND YOU KEEP THEM IN A BAG?!"

"No, not really, they just..."

"Ey! Don' talk like that, Ah don' like the way yer talkin' 'bout us pieces!"

"Hey! Bishop! Don't you ever wanna be free of the box? Here- c'mere, I'll set you free!"

"Sam!"

"And you, knight! I'll rescue all of you from slavery!"

And Ron never played wizard chess with Sam again.

* * *

"So... Wright."

"Professor Snape?"

"What is that in your cauldron?"

"Err... Herbicide potion, stage... five, sir."

"And what do the instructions for stage five say?"

"Stir fifteen times clockwise, five times counterclockwise."

"And what have you done?"

"Stirred ten times clockwise... sir."

"Why? Do you think this is a piece of arithmetic?"

"Well... I... uh.. thought it would be a good idea... to save some time... you know. If every stir has equal magical energy, then it would make sense to-"

"Does magic make your muggle sense? Do rocks floating in the air by sheer willpower make _sense_?"

"No... Sir."

"This has now become undrinkable, since you have so cleverly missed the window when stirring was optimal."

Snape twisted the red knob. "Ten points from Hufflepuff."

"And you," he turned on Neville, "did you think it was funny to watch Wright make his muggle mistakes? Perhaps you thought it would salvage your comparably... abysmal reputation. Let this be a lesson to you- twenty points from Hufflepuff."

Neville went deathly quiet, and didn't talk to Sam for the rest of the lesson.

* * *

"HOW GOES... THE PROCESS?"

"Well, my lord. The serf has stopped screaming, at least."

"VERY WELL. PROCEED WITH THE GIFT OF THE WAND."

"The wand? This quickly?"

"DO YOU DOUBT ME?"

"No... my lord... I merely..."

"YOU HAVE DOUBTED ME ONE TOO MANY TIMES, WORMTAIL. I FIND YOUR LACK OF FAITH... DISTURBING."

"No! My lord! I... AAH! AAAAAH! NO-NOT ME-I-AHHHH!"

...

* * *

"Sam, have you seen Scabbers? He seems to have gone missing."

"Really, Ron? Are you sure it hasn't just scampered off?"


	18. No1-The Challenge, demand satisfaction

Draco Malfoy was stuck. He was stuck in a very, very bad dilemma. He tried his best to remember Wright- the little mudblood that he'd briefly talked to at Madame Malkins, back when he thought he was still an "equal". He snickered at the thought. "Separate but equal", his father always said. "Separate but equal." And the Wizengamot, of course, was wise enough to know what he meant, and shaved off the right for Muggleborns to be prefects.

Sure, he may have shoved him at breakfast a little bit when he had the gall (the gall!) to bump into him. Okay, maybe he didn't bump into him. Okay, okay, maybe it was a little more than shoving. But still- that little mudblood should have known his place. If he'd shut up and left for once, maybe this would have ended there. But what does he do? The little twerp challenges him to a duel. He, the great Draco, of the Most Ancient and Noble house of Malfoy, was challenged by... Samuel Wright, Mudblood. And he'd gotten Neville to be his second, which was, if possible, even more laughable. The two of them together couldn't have lifted a feather if their lives counted on it! All the same, the question came down to whether he'd accept or not. He'd accepted publicly, of course, as befitted his status, but in private he could always call of Filch to, well, catch him in the act... and then what? The whole school would know that a SLYTHERIN backed off from a HUFFLEPUFF. If the bastard was from Gryffindor, maybe he could put it off to their dangerous nature, but seriously, who refuses a challenge from a Hufflepuff? Even their name was ridiculous.

Now if _he_ had set the challenge, it would have been different. He could've called Wright an idiot for clearly accepting a stupid idea, and let him takke the fall- that was that. But now... He had to admit, he'd never really though t about the mudblood as a rival before, and now he was in a bind. The very idea was laughable, of course, and he would have never brought himself to admit that Wright ever had hopes of being his rival, but in this situation...

He took out 2 galleons to pay Filch off when Wright decided the place to duel, and called Goyle to his side.

* * *

It was midnight, two days before the duel. Draco Malfoy, while his fellow Slytherins slept, quiet slipped out of bed. In his hand he held his father's copied copy of " _Code Duello_ : On the Rules of _Duelling_ betwain _Warlockes of the Moste Noble and Anciente Houses_ of _Brittany_ ", as written and edited by John Graham Chambers (A wizard disguised as a Muggle, of course) from the ancient codes of honour. His father had given him a copy ( _Gemini_ , he was told, was highly useful against tax collectors who expected you to hand over bags of gold with or without heat-insulation charms and/or False Memory charms) of the families' own, handwritten by Self-Writing Quill, with copies sent to each House for safekeeping, back when the Ministry of Magic was still in its infancy. He lifted the pages (for there were many) to the "Introduction to Duelling: The Beginner's Rules", lit his wand with Lumos, and began to read.

 _"The Twenty Commandments of the Code Duello:_

 _I. The challenge comes by he who was wronged and to he who wrongs, and thus the accused may not engage the accusor in matrimony, how-ever justified it may seem to the accusor in such time._

 _II. At no pointe shall the duel begin at the darke of nighte, for such times are when passions flaire. Duel before the sun is upon the sky, howeveer, lest the flashes of wand-work attract uneeded attention._

 _III. The challenger decides the place, the challenged decide the tid, for there shall be no trickery involved on either side._

 _IV. Each shall choose a second as their lieutnante and aide, and the twain shall meet to decide the details in accordance with their dueler's wish. Whenever possible, allow for peace to reign supreme through the arte of language._

 _V. If peace is not to be, a respectable healer is to be summoned upon the place and tid of the duell, his fees split between the duellers and paid beforehand. He shall be protected by whichever means possible, and is to be kept at ten pace's lengthe to avoid the effects of the wand-work. Upon no circumstances may his neutrality be breached by force magical or otherwise, and he is to be proclaimed innocente should any charges against the duelling parties fall._

 _VI. He who falls firste, or feels the need to call for a halt may do so after the firste volley by some predetermined signal decided by the secondes beforehand, no earlier. If peace has been loste betwain the two parties, there will be no peace after the duel commences without wandwork._

 _VII. When called, both duellers shall cease fire immediately. If treachery is committed, then let he who hath broken his honour suffer the wrath of all involved._

 _VIII. If the accuseth shall call for peace, he muste recind his challenge againste the accused. If the accused call for peace, he must apologise to the accused in order of the magnitude of the accusatione, as follows:_

 _a. Threats or insults to the accused; Private apology_

 _b. Threats or insults to the family or companion of the accused; Private apology to all affected_

 _c. Theft of accused property; Private apology with monetary repayment_

 _d. Bodily or mental harm to the accused; Public apology and monetary repayment_

 _e. Bodily or mental harm to the family of the accused; Public apology to all affected and monetary repayment_

 _f. The spread of rumours and scandal against the accused; Public apology of the highest order_

 _g. Violation of the accused's bodily privacy and purity; Public apology of the highest order, monetary repayment to the order of the accused_

 _h. Acts in flagrante delicto against the accused's wishes, impersonation, modificatione of memories against the accused's wille, grievous harm to the body and mind of the accused, scandal or libel perpratrated against the accused, mental subjugation and imprisonment of the accused, causes of near death against the accused; Public apology of the highest order, monetary repayment on order of the accused, the loss of Noble privileges if applicable, property repayment on order of the accused._

 _IX. There shall be no use of magics with an intent to permanently harm, deface, or affect your opponent, the Unforgivable curses are strictly forbidden, and none shall act with the intent to harm the seconde of their opponent, who shall remain at the length of five paces._

 _X. There shall be no use of physical force in a wizard's duel, for such acts are unseemly and stand in opposition to the values of the duel._

 _XI. Before any duel shall commence, a circle is drawn to mark the duel boundaries, such borders agreed upon by unbreakable vow, and drawn by the secondes without intent of disadvantage to either dueller. Any magics intentionally aimed or designed to affect those beyond the border are strictly forbidden, and all attempts to do so render the duel null and the offender defeated._

 _XII. There wille be no attempte to halte the duel when it hath begun by any man, be he king or father, unless the duellers decide to halt. If such an occasion arises, it falls to the seconds to guarde the duel until it is complete, the circle is forcibly broken, or both._

 _XIII. In the event of a broken circle, the duel shall cease, all duellers sheath their wands, and a truce declared until another tid is set._

 _XIV. No duel shalle be forced upon one who does not wishe to accepte._

 _XV. In the case of a dueller injured beyond self-repair, the duel is ceased and the fallen hath conceded defeat in absentia. The seconde of the fallen may request the healer's services, and the conflict is thus resolved. If the accused falleth, reparations are then in order._

 _XVI. All magical items, talismans, and such are allowed so long as they do not cause lasting harm or danger beyond the circle._

 _XVII. No duel shall commence if a dueller is under the influence of foreign magicks, ale, potions, or curses and all such influences that may affecte judgemente. If such an occasion arises, the secondes may arrange another tid and place as they see fit._

 _XVIII. In the event that a party is not present at the agreed tid, they are to be treated conceded in absentia, with all conditions and reparations as agreed forthwith applying, unless the absent party offers a legitimate cause for absence._

 _XIX. In the evente of a death through a duel, if accidental, all present shall be sworn to secrecy; if intentional, the dueller shall be persecuted through the rule of those present._

 _XX. All those who violate these rules in clair knowledge of their existence are to be regardede as if they have conceded."_

All this to duel a mudblood, who had probably never heard of this Code Duello business.

* * *

In retrospect, he should have known it was trouble the moment Neville came looking for "G-G-Goyle". Upon being introduced to Mr. "G-G-Goyle", the little squirt promptly took out a piece of paper and told Goyle, in no less than absolute terms, that Sam had chosen the duel to be in the Trophy Room. Why that of all places? Did the mudblood even figure out how to get there? Or was this some sort of move?

It was amazing how many ways you could damn yourself by not being careful.

It was midnight, one day from the duel.

* * *

Samuel Wright sat quietly on his bed at Hufflepuff. He'd tried to read a few of his muggle books, but he was too nervous to even read. He wasn't sure if he should even duel Malfoy or not. If he was wrong, this could very well be a massive humiliation and the complete destruction of any social capital he would ever get. It was a all-or-nothing sort of game. Neville, also sitting in the bunk above, stayed silent, but even Sam (Who wasn't very good at this whole empathy business) could feel the waves of fear radiating from his friend.

"Sam, are you sure we can do this?"

"Definitely, Neville. Like I saved you from that Troll, remember?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"We can do this..."

"We can do this."


	19. The Duel

Darkness. Silence. No wind, 'cause it was indoors, but still. Deathly chills. The two contestants arrived silently, with Sam arriving first. There was to be no talking between the duellists. Draco Malfoy, the challenged, held his wand close to his heart, murmuring the spells he had learnt from his studies. Sam Wright, the challenger, was rethinking the whole duel business altogether. The seconds hung around the duellists uncertainly, each occasionally glancing at the other, with no words passing.

"Final negotiations," Sam whispered to Neville.

"Do we have to?" Neville looked panicked, which was normal for him.

"Well, the rules said so." And with a pat on his back, Neville Longbottom strode into the centre of the trophy room, which wasn't far away, since it was quite cramped even with four children- the founders had clearly not intended on anyone being here for long.

"Um... So... Malfoy. Wright sends his regards, and, um, promises not to kill you if you, er, uncon... unconditional... unconditionally surr-en-der. Now, I mean. Do you, Goyle, accept these, er, terms?"

"The boss says no, dumbass." Goygle was, perhaps, slightly more succinct with his words.

"Okay... ver, very well. Then the duel, er, commen... commences. Ten paces, no lethal spells. And, er, Sam says the duel's over when one... one of us falls down, and (here Sam frantically whispered)... Doesn't get up for ten seconds."

There would be no more words exchanged. Sam, meanwhile, was frantically glancing around the trophy room for things he could use. His eyes fell on a large plaque rewarding one T.M. Riddle for services rendered to the school. _If I could hit him with it somehow..._

He still hadn't mastered _wingardium leviosa_ yet, so that was out of the question. Casting his mind back, Sam desperately tried to think of any spells he might have come across during his classes and books. _Incendio (No idea how to cast), Spongify (How was this going to be useful?), Alohomora (Useless), Colloportus (Doubly so), Lumos (Where would I use it?)... Lumos... Lumos..._

And in no time, he had reached the end of his (rather small) ten paces. On the other side, he heard Draco stop as well. He turned around, still having no idea what to do, thinking of a spell...

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Draco, unfortunately, had the duel strengths of experience and knowledge. In a flash, Sam began to rise, and rise, and rise, until he crashed into the ceiling with a loud thump, smashing onto the hard stone floor. His head exploded with pain, as did his entire body. Malfoy began to count.

"One... Two... Three... Four... Get up, Wright, I'm not done playing with you yet... Five... Six..."

Samuel Wright laid on the ground, unmoving. He finally had a plan, and most of that involved waiting for the pain to stop.

"Eight... Nine... I guess thats-"

"LUMOS!" In a flash, Draco Malfoy was blinded. Stepping back, he ran straight into a cabinet full of plaques. But Sam wasn't done yet. Without sparing a glance at the disoriented Malfoy, he cast his second spell.

"Spongify!"

The ground beneath Draco became soft and squishy, and before he knew it, he fell straight onto the floor, unable to get up despite his best efforts. With a grin, Sam kneeled down and began counting himself. "One... Two... Three... Four..."

"Incendio! Wingardium Leviosa!"

Sam, having lost his centre of gravity due to kneeling down and being disoriented, frantically fell backwards to avoid the spurt of flames (third degree burns) that Draco's wand sprouted, falling straight into his second spell. Draco, even more unfortunately, also reversed the spongification on the floor before Sam fell down.

Loud cracks. Pain. Spinning lights.

"NEVILLE! HELP! I CAN'T-" Sam panicked. His head was spinning, his breath had been lost, and Goyle seemed to be taking great pleasure in choking him. In a rush, Neville drew his wand, stumbling backwards onto the cabinet to avoid Malfoy's preemptive volley of curses.

"LET HIM GO! Wingar-"

" _Diffindo_."

Silence, followed by the sound of glass shattering and a boy whimpering.

"Oh dear, Neville, you seem to have taken quite the fall, haven't you? Sometimes it really does help to be... ahead of the curve, don't you think? Now, Mr. Wright, its time to see what you're really made of. One... Two..." Draco gloated as the count began anew. Neville, curiously enough, ended up resting on top of the plaque celebrating Mr. Riddle, the very same one that Sam had seen earlier.

"Four... Five... Six..."

"Listen very carefully, Neville. When I say go, you..." Sam's voice was barely a whisper now, and certainly one no one paid attention to.

"Eight... Nine... T-"

"GO!"

There was a loud, muffled, thump, as Neville threw the heavy plaque at Malfoy. At the same time, Sam jabbed his wand into Goyle's eye, murmured "Smile", and uttered the incantation.

"GARGHHHHHH!"

That was Mr. Malfoy.

"AHHHHHHHHH!"

And that was Mr. Goyle.

"I don't think they'll be getting up anytime soon, don't you think?"

"Yeah... Sam... I don't think they'll be gettin' up anytime soon."

Four boys entered the trophy room. Two went out.


	20. Omake (1)

**A.N.:** So, I'm just going to include the troll story in here since I couldn't think of a place to put it after the duel without completely breaking flow. Also, one of my worst complaints about book I was how Rowling chickened out of actually showing a duel, which is why I did the mini duel-arc thingy, the third (and final) chapter of which comes... whenever I post the next chapter.

Sam Wright, as a general rule, didn't like trolls. Trolls were big, nasty creatures, short and brutish, armed with just enough intelligence to wield a simple tool. In many ways, they were quite similar to early neanderthals, really, which made Sam question whether they naturally evolved like this or whether this was some ancient mage's personal project gone wrong. In fact, they showed basic spatial and memory based intelligence, which explained how the wielded tools.

If these things were, in fact, a divergent evolutionary path that some neanderthals underwent after some magic clearly messed with their DNA, Sam was going to have to re-evaluate the safety of this transfiguration business. After all, it only took a few sequence changes in an otherwise normal DNA chain for disastrous consequences... _Focus_ , Sam told himself. Now wasn't the time to debate the merits of troll evolution. Hermione and Neville were being threatened by one, after all.

It was funny, almost, how this whole thing went. Professor Snape, who worked in the dungeons and rarely showed up for lunch, burst into the Great Hall demanding the headmaster's attention, at which point he explained that there was, in fact, a troll on the loose in the dungeon. Professor Quirrel, the Muggle Studies teacher, fainted on the spot. Professor Kettleburn (A fellow who'd lost one too many limbs), the Magical Creatures teacher, was then dispatched with Professor Snape to search for said troll, while the rest of the students (save a few brave souls who volunteered for troll-hunting duty) were ordered to go back to their common rooms.

This was, Sam thought, a disastrous plan. Spreading the students out maximised the chances of any one being caught by the troll, but when you looked at it another way, making everyone huddle in the Great Hall made it easy for the troll to do maximum damage if and when it found them. It had penetrated their magical security systems, after all.

And then Professor Snape, via a silvery animal, reported that there were, in fact, ten trolls, not one. Professor Kettleburn had pointed out the clues.

That put a stop to the "send students roaming around halls" idea very, very quickly. McGonagall made everyone who was still in the Great Hall (Headmaster Dumbledore safely asleep in his study) gather aroung the centre, with the students separated by House- Gryffindors on the outside, then Hufflepuffs, then Ravenclaws, and finally Slytherins, safe in the middle. The reasoning for this rather bad arrangement was not contested. Luckily, of course, most year 6 and 7 students volunteered to go to the front anyways. Sam found himself stuck with a particularly brave fifth year named Oliver Wood, presumably because he captained the Gryffindor Quidditch team. (He never quite got the hang of this "quidditch" business).

"Hello, Mr. Wood."

"Call me Oliver, will you? What's your name?"

"Sam. How's the quidditch team going?"

"Oh well. Most of the team's still stuck with Cleansweep 7s, of course, but that won't stop us. Maybe we'll get a three hundred-point miss this time."

"A three hundred point miss?" It couldn't mean what Sam thought it meant. No, it couldn't.

"That is, three hundred points from third place."

"But shouldn't you be looking to win?"

"Us? Win? You've got to be kidding. Maybe we'll win when Umbridge stops giving Slytherin "premium" practice time every single day. Or when she allows us to bring our own brooms to a match instead of using school brooms. Or when Snape stops deducting a hundred points for sneezing during a match. Or when the "referee" starts recognising when we've caught the snitch, instead of giving the opposing team a penalty and ordering us to "release the captured object, which is against the rules". (Here he made use of particularly large air-quotes) Then we might win, and only if the High Inquisitor is feeling particularly charitable that day and doesn't just randomly cancel a match when it looks like we're winning, and tells us we've lost."

The Gryffindor Quidditch team's prospects, it seems, weren't particularly good. It was about that time, however, that a rabble rose from the Ravenclaw group.

"Has anyone seen Hermione?"

Nobody, it seems, had seen her since the last class. At the same time, other voices were raised.

"Has anyone seen Cho by any chance?"

"Or Angelica Johnson?"

"Hey, does anyone know where Fred is?"

As it turned out, quite a lot of people went suspiciously missing during lunch. Most turned up, after a few silvery animal mails (Sam decided to learn these as soon as possible) to be in the library, working, or "studying" in the common room (Fred would later be overheard saying that he was glad Patronuses didn't have vision along with sound). The only one missing was Hermione, whom Professor McGonagall had tried to contact with Patronus (that was what Sam heard) herself. As it turned out, it wasn't missing, it just took longer to arrive. And when the silver creature arrived, it said only one word.

"EEEEeeeee!"

Apparently, Hermione wasn't as safe as they thought.

That was where Neville came in. Seeing as none of the students were willing to go, and the teachers were needed to protect the vast majority of students i.e. everyone in the great hall (diverting the total protection offered to 99% of students and wasting a large chunk of both your total magical prowess and protection by splitting your already limited teachers for the sake of 1 student was never a good idea, Sam thought, even if it was a really cruel way of thinking about problems) he thus rushed out before anyone could have stopped him. Sam, before Neville killed himself, then rushed out after him, after asking McGonagall for Hermione's location before he left. The girl's bathroom. Lovely place to be, really. He had always wondered what laid within- chiding himself, he caught up with the frantic Neville, Ron having magically appeared at his side, and the three of them crept towards the bathroom whose door had been dramatically ripped open, and from which frantic whimpers were emitting, probably by Hermione.

It was a miracle that Hermione had survived this long. Any other person-Sam included- would have fallen either from shock or fear a long long time ago. Hermione, by sheer force of will and maic learned in class, made the floor beneath the beast wet, soggy, and was in the process of desperately hurling water caskets at the Troll, which was making good headway despite the many, many repeated blows to its head. Clearly, the potties weren't enough.

"Guys?"

"Yes, Neville?" "Neville?"

"I'm going to try distract the thing-"

"Neville, you're worse at magic than I am, and I'm bloody terrible-"

"No, I'm... I'm going to run out and make it target me, and you two focus on trying to bring it down, okay? Please... please?"

And Neville was off, yelling and pummelling the troll madly.

"He belongs in Gryffindor", Ron muttered under his breath, then charged after him with Sam. Immediately they were hit by a problem. Sam had a fuzzy notion of somehow using Wingardium Leviosa to make the troll's club fly up and smack him, but he simply wasn't strong enough to do it- in fact, him and Ron working in tandem couldn't do it, though that was probably more of his fault that Ron's. Okay, Sam, plan B. The troll, thoroughly annoyed, turned to Neville, who shot them with a "help" face.

Plan B... Plan B...

Ron, having seen the frozen look on Sam's face, decided to become the third distraction, yelling "STOP IT, YOU TROLL!" and charging into the fray. The troll, becoming more and more frustrated, knocked Neville and Ron out in one fell swoop, and advanced towards Hermione, who had run out of loos to fling and was now desperately trying to cast _incendio_ in the damp, humid room.

As all of this happened, Sam stood quietly and watched. He needed a plan... something to lift... something to distract the troll... could it slip on a puddle? Unlikely, but.. The puddle...

And Sam had an idea. Casting Wingardium Leviosa on the puddles of water on the floor, Sam directed a massive glob of floating, dirty sewer water directly into the troll's head, completely encasing the small, orb-like structure. Now all he had to do was wait. At first, the troll seemed at best mildly perturbed. It didn't take long for it to start to drown. In desperation, however, the troll attempted to bring his arms to brush away the water clamped to his head- forgetting that one arm still held the club.

WHAM.

One down, nine to go.


	21. Detention with Umbridge

"Detention tonight, Mr. Wright."

"But, but professor-"

"Detention tonight and tomorrow night, Mr. Wright. Do you have anything else to say?"

"No... No, Professor Umbridge."

"Your behaviour is exactly the sort that we here at Hogwarts seek to eradicate. Not only did you challenge Mr. Malfoy and provoke him into armed combat, you and your friend Mr. Neville attacked him with the intent of causing lasting HARM!" Her voice rose to a screech. "You should be lucky you haven't been EXPELLED YET!"

Sam, whatever his faults, really, really didn't want to be expelled.

"Okay."

"Give me your map."

He did so, and she tapped it with a flourish.

"You wish, from now on, be allowed to see the rooms required for your classes- and nothing else. I have also added my room to the map. I'm sure this will be the only time, no?" She smiled again, that terrible smile that made Sam's skin crawl.

"Yes, Professor Umbridge."

"Wonderful!"

Sam had always been a pacifist, but now he understood what murderous rage was.

He had never left anyone's office faster, even as Draco's smirking gaze trailed after him.


	22. The Room of Requirement, or the War Room

It was a dark and dismal place, the Gryffindor common room. Once, perhaps, some would have described the bottom of the tower as "cozy", or even "home-like", but now the worn, desecrated armchairs stood idle as students huddled around the dying embers of what was once a perpetual flame, sitting on shoddily transfigured stools. The old notice board had long since fallen, and now notices were charmed to stick directly onto the wall, held together by little more than whatever ancestral magic Hogwarts still had left.

To the side, several ancient Cleansweep Sevens stood idle, given that the Gryffindor Quidditch team hardly ever got to practice. Their leader, the one Sam realised was Oliver Wood, stood to a side arguing with two students that Sam recognised- Fred and George, Ron's brothers. A tattered, droopy banner with "Gryffindor First" hung from the ceiling, the "first" scrawled off by magical marker and replaced with "second third Not Last". Sam privately wondered what Ron had to show him that would "cheer him up". So far, all this had only served to make him feel worse.

"Ignore that, Sam. That's just the front."

"The Front?"

"Yep. Over here- sorry Johnson, friend over."

Ron pulled out his wand, and dragged Sam over to the ancient fireplace, displacing an older girl.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Instantly, the mantelpiece- a faded, cracked elfish creature that Sam would have never noticed normally- morphed to life.

"What... is your name?"

"Sorry, Sam, this takes awhile." Ron muttered. "It's security. RON AND A FRIENDLY!" He yelled back.

Sam recognised the line, and fought the urge to laugh. He knew what came next.

"What... is your quest?"

"To enter the bloody chamber. Now let me in!"

"What... is the capital of the Soviet Union?"

"I don't know, Seamus!"

"Wait," Sam said. He'd seen this on the news. "Sorry, um, elf, but the Soviet Union's dissolved. Now shouldn't you fall off the bridge?"

For a second, the elf looked shocked. Then he said, "Good one, Ron. Didn't know you'd know that."

"That wasn't me!" Ron yelled back.

"Then your friend knows somethin'. Opening the door now..."

And the fireplace swivelled around, revealing a blank patch of wall and a lion crest.

"Get in here, quick." Ron muttered. "A teacher might be coming..."

And as they both ducked into the fireplace, the wall swivelled once again, revealing...

A massive hall, the size of multiple Hufflepuff common rooms, with streamers of Gryffindor house everywhere. Brightly lit by a massive chandelier, bunk beds and giant bookshelves dominated the room. A grand command table stood at the middle, a map of Hogwarts with various names moving around laid out carefully. To another side, a door marked "Exit- Random" and "Exit- Toilet" stood, and as Sam watched in amazement, various students continually poured in, wearing scruffy robes of red and gold, taking well worn places on the various multicoloured couches and common areas dotted around the room.

"Where is this?"

"They call it the Room of Requirement. We call it the War Room."

And a War Room it was. On the moving map of Hogwarts, various pins and dots were laid out, each with notes tuck to them marked things like "spray op." or "sniffler deployment". But before he could take in much more, several Gryffindors came over to him and Ron.

"So, Ron, this is the friendly you were talking about?"

"Yeah."

"Hufflepuff, huh." The other Gryffindor didn't seem impressed. "Always thought they were spineless cowards."

Sam thought about Neville. "You don't get to call them spineless-"

"Alright, alright, guys, calm down." Another Gryffindor walked over, grinning broadly as he offered his hand to Sam.

"You trust him, Seamus?"

"He got my Monty Python reference. Anyone who does that is worthy of my respect, mate."

"Thanks, er, Seamus." Sam said quietly, shaking his hand.

"Don't be scared, Sam. That is your name, right? Ron's told us all about you. Come on, let me show you around." He pointed to the map.

"That's the Marauder's Map, made by a couple of students who we owe our continued existence to. They're like gods around here." He pointed to a large banner. "There, that's them."

The banner read: "In honour of Moony Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Troublemakers Extraordinaire".

"And over here-" He led Sam to a pile of bookcases "Is our private DADA stash."

"DADA?"

"Defence against the Dark Arts. The stuff they teach is rubbish, so we have our own stores here." He picked up one, Elementary Defence Against the Dark Arts: The Theory by one Galatea Merrythought. "I hear you like books, so take that. Its better than any of the Ministry quack they're gonna tell you in the official books anyway."

"Where do you _get_ all this?" Sam asked.

"Magic." Seamus smirked mysteriously. "They don't call it the Room of Requirement for nothing."

Just then, a rather large bronze bell that hung next to the fireplace rang three times, loudly.

"Oops, incoming. I got to go man the elf, you wanna come with me? I'm on duty today."

"Sure." Sam was curious.

"Seamus led Sam to a risen wooden platform off the side of the room, adorned with little more than a simple chair and a oak-panelled control panel. He touched a few dials, causing a rather large, bulky pair of what seemed like telescopes to rise. With a well-practised flourish, he pressed them to his eyes and hit a gold switch, disengaging the lock holding the fireplace in place.

"Friendly," he told Sam. Then, pulling a stick like implement close to his mouth, he began to speak.

"What... is your name?"

"Oliver Wood, Angelina Johnson, George and Fred."

"What... is your quest?"

"Patrol coming, need to get in, we're supposed to be asleep."

"What... is the capital of the Soviet Union?"

"We're not deaf, its gone now."

"Alright, alright. Opening..."

And Seamus flipped a gold switch, admitting the four in.

"Why don't they sleep in the dorms?"

"Have you _seen_ the dorms?" Seamus said grimly. "There's a reason we have to cower here, y'know. As my dad used to say, the largest house is just a gilded cage if you can't get out." He made a face. "Whatever that means."

Sam didn't know either, bu he was pretty sure he had a good idea.


	23. Quirrelmort no more

Sam hated the long, slow path down to Umbridge's office the following night. He desperately wished to go back to the Room of Requirement, to be anywhere but here. but here he was, scared and cowardly, crawling down the long steps to the office, whose door was already open, the ominous pink light shining through the hallway...

"Oof!"

In his dread, Sam had completely missed a young, lanky teacher, head full of dark hair, who had been wearing dull grey robes that fell to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Mr..."

"Quirrel- Quirinus Quirrel, though you may call me Professor Quirrel."

"Oh, um, my apologies, Professor, ah, Quirrel."

"Don't worry, young man. Very few people know me, ah, very well." He muttered under his breath, almost a whisper. "And your name is?"

"Samuel Wright."

"Hufflepuff, I see. Well, I have to go. I have a lecture to prepare on the development of..." he pulled out his scroll of notes, murmuring "Lecture tomorrow", at which point it scrolled to the appropriate section. "Air-of-vanes."

"I think you mean aeroplanes, Professor Quirrel."

"Ah! Thank you. Would you be interested in muggle studies, by any chance? You seem very well acquainted with their devices."

"Uh, sure." Professor Quirrel caught sight of his yellow lightning-bolt badge.

"I see... you're a muggle-born. Hmm. We are always in shortage of fine young men like you. You would be a great boon to the class, I believe. In fact, might you be interested in helping me audit this lecture? I've never quite gotten the hang of these... um..." He turned to his notes.

"I'd love to, sir, but I have detention with Umbridge." To be frank, Sam felt the Professor seemed quite desperate.

"I'll sign you out. Why not? I'll tell her you have, er, detention with me in the dungeons. Double time. What do you think, eh?"

Sam thought about this for a while. Checking over some poor teacher's speech certainly seemed better than another night of lines with Umbridge, even if it did extend well past midnight. He accepted the offer.

Professor Quirrel's office was a cramped space, tight and unforgiving. The walls were lined with strange books and scrolls, some seemingly of his own design, littered with complex diagrams depicting elaborate circles and crude explanations of devices, all littered with notes. Next to the creaky wooden desk was a small chest of drawers, each of the seven layers labelled with names. Sam quietly read them out loud. _Class, Spells, Books, Supplies, Rituals, Files,_ and an odd one that read _D.W.- T.M.R, H.B.P., B.L. etc_. Pulling out (or conjuring) an old armchair, Quirrel bade Sam sit in front of his desk. He muttered quietly, "Class of Year Four, tomorrow, materials, quill, ink." Instantly, two compartments slid open from his drawer: supplies and class. From it, a set of inkpot-and-quill drifted lazily to the right of his desk, where he laid one of his hands, while the scroll that had wafted out of the class drawer sat down next to his other hand, where it obligingly stretched to reveal his notes.

"On the construction and design of air-of-vanes: Why Muggles don't use broomsticks by Quirinus Quirrel", Sam read.

"You name all of your notes? And is that formatting?"

"Well, I've always hoped that some one might pop around to take a look, so..." Professor Quirrel smiled sheepishly, and snapped his fingers at the bookcase. "Case," he intoned. "All books on- what was it again?" Sam reminded him. "Aeroplanes. Or," he added after some thought, "air-of-vanes." Several ragged tomes exploded from the stuffed bookcase, landing wearily next to Sam's own hand, which had already reached for the first, creatively named "Why muggles want vanes. A study on air-of-vane creation", by one "Scholar of Muggles: A.W."

"Is A.W. any good?" Sam asked, pointing to the writer.

"Oh, yes, most instructive. Its almost as if he admires them. The muggles, I mean." Quirrel replied absentmindedly as he gazed at his lesson notes.

"Now, let's begin. Shall we? For a long period of time, the manufacture and production of the so-called air-of-vane, no, scratch that- quill! Air-of-vane to aeroplane, all instances! The manufacture and production of the so-called aeroplane, thank you, has caused..."


	24. A Plan of Attack

Silence reigned in the War Room, or the Room of Requirement, or really just the Extended Gryffindor Common Room. Around the ancient table stood a solemn ring of Gryffindors, and two Hufflepuffs, and a Ravenclaw. All were silent.

Their leader, a scruffy looking young man in dashing red robes that obscured his face, began to speak.

"I, as the Requester of the Room of Requirement, hereby welcome these three who have come here in search of assistance against tyranny and oppression in the case of their- um, blood status. State your names, newcomers. Scribe! Prepare the List."

Fred, looking utterly ridiculous in a set of frilly laced robes that he insisted on calling "dress robes" for some reason, pulled out yet another ridiculously long scroll. Did these people not have PDAs, or even notebooks? Sam thought. Why must everything go on a long, continuous scroll?

"Aw, dammit, I forgot my quill." Fred's face was red. "I'll just-"

"Nah, I got it here," said George. "Try not to leave it in obvious places next time."

"Obvious? I put it in my-"

"Shhh. Now that our scribes are, um, prepared, state your names!"

"Sam Wright."

"Neville Longbottom."

Sniggers broke out, which were quickly shushed.

"Hermione Jean Granger."

"Got that? Good." The leader nodded in Fred's direction.

"I'll just... Oh, very funny, George." In Fred's hand, accompanied nicely by the triple layered lace, was a large rubber mouse.

"We're quite pressed for time here, you know."

"Alright, alright. Sam Wright, Neville Long-Bottom (Spoken with a flourish), and Hermione Granger."

"Who will vouch for them?"

"Well, me." Ron looked positively terrified.

"Good. Now, there's only one step left, and we can, um, indoctrinate you into the Rebel Alliance officially. Who wrote that line?" More sniggers.

"Follow along with me- I solemnly swear..."

"I solemnly swear..."

"I... sol... lemnlingy... swear..."

"I _solemnly_ swear..."

"That I am up to no good."

"That I- WHAT? That's against the rules!"

"Hermione, is it? Well, you're in a rebel alliance. You can't give pixies about rules anymore."

"I thought this was a study group!"

"Ron? What did you tell her?"

"Well, she figured out how to get in, so I told her it was a... er... study group to stop her from telling Umbridge."

"Sh-Hrmph. Very well. Look, we fight Umbridge, she's evil. Anyone with a lightning badge can agree, right?"

Most of the Gryffindors bared their lightning badges and nodded in agreement, some touching particularly old scars.

"So, if you don't want to join us, we won't force you. But please, don't go telling everyone."

"I... I..." For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger looked unsure. "I don't know... I guess I'll join."

"Great. Now, let's finish this, and we can turn the lights on. I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Three voices repeated the line, one quavering.

"Now, to test your dedication to the cause, I present to you... the map. If any one of you is a spy, it will refuse to open for you."

From the opposite end of the table, a few other first years carried over the map Sam had seen a few days earlier, now blank and folded up. Spreading it over the table, they then walked away. The crowd shuffled closer to watch as the three children looked apprehensively at the blank map.

"Touch your wands to the map. We've made a few modifications to the password,so you'll have to say your names as well. Touch your wand to the map."

Tap. Thunk. Tick.

"Now say the incantation."

"I, Sam Wright, solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

"I, er... Neville... What would my grandmother say- yes- Longbottom, slomenly swear that I am up to... nogood!"

"I. Hermione Granger. Solemnly swear that I am... up to no good."

And with a flourish, the Marauder's map opened itself.

"Wonderful. You're in now, and if you ever try to tell anyone the location, you will lose all your memories, your ears will fall off, and the word sneak will be written in boils across your face. I'm serious."

"WHAT?" It wasn't just Sam, now Hermione was screaming as well.

"We tried only the boils thing, but people were blabbing in droves. The last time anything happened, it took a full week to get the room functioning again. We had to sleep in the _dorms_." One portly boy, no more than fourteen years of age, spoke quietly, shuddering when he mentioned the dormitories.

"Now, now, Wiggins, don't scare the poor sods. Okay, everyone, now that the map's back, can we all get back to work now?"

Several of the senior members snapped their fingers, removing the binds from the chandeliers nested at the top, and others hurried to scatter the self-righting pins across the map of Hogwarts once more.

"Now, the Shift is in ten minutes, so can everyone please retrieve the reference texts. Runners?"

Several muggleborns wearing muggle sports shoes stepped up.

"Has Umbridge done anything yet?"

"No, all the standard shift routes are clear, sir. The bowels still aren't fully mapped out, though."

"No worries, the map will compensate. Reference!"

Instantly, several more of the Gryffindors carried several heavy books over to the great table, dumping them next to the map.

"How did you get these?" Sam asked, looking at titles like _Standard Corridor Permutations_ and _Left Arithmetic Shifts concerning the Positions of Fifth Floor Hallways_.

"The Room of Requirement..." the fellow was skimming the books already, "gives you anything you want if you ask it nicely. Alright, you lot! Spray painters!"

A motley crew assembled to attention.

"Graffiti on the second left, third right one floor down, and straight, left, right, right hallways tomorrow. We'll show them how its done!"

Instead of memorising positions, the man (still clad in red robes) explained to Sam, the rebels simply memorised the turns they had to make relative to the postion of the room, which was usually behind a banner featuring trolls but could really go anywhere if they wanted to. It was when the leader began gesticulating with his fingers, almost as if describing the movements of broomstick-riding players, did Sam finally get it.

"Why, you're Oliver Wood!"

"What, you didn't know?" With a crackle, Oliver threw his hood back "We just got the robe for theatrics, everyone knows I'm under it." For a brief moment, he and Sam shared a laugh. Then his face became serious again. "Shift's in three. Alright, planners, please come over, we're starting work on the heist!"

It was around this time that Sam, walking towards the bookshelves, ran into Hermione.

"Oh, um, hi, er... Hermione!"

"Did you know they have all the defense textbooks all the way up to year seven? This is amazing!"

"Well, I'll, er... be going now."

"Listen," Hermione grabbed his arm (Which was really quite hard to do with the robes they'd been asked to buy), "Do you think there's a chance we could convince teachers to let us study here?"

Sam was at a loss for words.

"This is the resistance, Hermione, and you're worried about _books_? This could be the most important thing in our lives, and you're just... just... reading!"

Silence. Hermione's face flushed red.

"I... I..." For the second time that night, Hermione had no words. Sam immediately realised his mistake.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just-"

"No, it's fine, I'll just go now." And with nary another sound, Hermione fled the room.

"Blimey, Sam, what'd you do to the poor girl?" Ron asked as he walked over.

"I'm... not really sure." Sam said back. "But whatever it is, it looks like they're planning something big. Let's go check. C'mon, Neville, stop staring at the Remembrall. (He'd seen pictures of the odd globe in textbooks, and was fairly sure he needed one)."

The three short boys pushed themselves into the crowd surrounding the table, where Oliver Wood was doing some explaining with several of what looked like miniature animated action figures of various Hogwarts students.

"...SO, as I was saying, Umbridge's office is here- at least on the day it will be, and our attack vectors are here (he knocked over a Slytherin with a Gryffindor), here (his strike force of Gryffindors stomped over Filch with a few flashes of light from their min-wands), and here- mind you, this will be quite close to the staff quarters, in which case... (Here his figures had trouble against Snape, who was muttering such phrases as "ten points from Gryffindor" and "detention, all of you" to the great amusement of the surrounding students.) We attack via route 18. (A second force crept up behind Snape, pushing along with the other two sides into the room marked "Umbridge's office") All clear?"

"What exactly are we doing?" Sam asked. "I mean, breaking into her office is usually a bad idea..."

"If you'd been _listening_ ," said Oliver, clearly annoyed, "This may be the most important mission in the history of Gryffindor. We're going to get the Sorting Hat."


	25. Homesickness

Samuel Wright had never been homesick before.

Then again, most of his schooling before that point had consisted of him being around 70 metres from his parents at any given moment, and he wasn't particularly prone to sudden fits of longing for his parents. But after three months at this bloody wizard school, he had had enough. Every particle of his being longed to be home, to be with Mum and Dad again, to be anywhere but in a place where the laws of physics were polite suggestions and giant trolls roamed the halls and the conservation of matter and energy was broken on a regular basis and fantastic racism against people like him and TORTURE CONDONED BY THE SCHOOL ADMINISTRATION and a REBEL ALLIANCE and... and...

"Are you alright?" Neville, seeing tears roll down Sam's cheeks, walked over.

"D'you know any way you can get home for winter break, Neville?"

As it turned out, Muggleborns could apply to go home, but only if they had a medical or family emergency. Wizard hospitals, it seemed, weren't all that keen on treating muggleborns who more often than not had but a few sickles and knuts in their vaults. Sam, unfortunately, had neither.

"You know what this means, Neville."

"What?"

"I'm going to have to sneak onto the Hogwarts express."

* * *

"You can't do this." Neville was adamant, perhaps for the first time in his life.

"I can and I will." Sam was just as, if not more, adamant.

"What happens if they get you?"

"I'll just run."

"You can't run! They'll say you... um... violated your contract and Obliviate you and... and... take you away to the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's and..."

"What's the Janus Thickey Ward for?" despite himself, Sam felt the unstoppable urge to ask.

"Patients who's minds have been permanently modified by spells. Its the only ward growing every year." Neville replied gloomily. "If you're lucky, they'll just make you remember yourself as a muggle and that'll be it."

"How do _you_ know so much about the Janus Thickey ward?"

All of a sudden, Neville expressed an urgent and immediate desire to go to the bathroom.

 _Huh_ , Sam thought to himself. _That's strange_. He looked back at the calendar on one of the walls of the Hufflepuff common room (coloured gold, naturally). Three more days until Winter Break. If all else failed, he could still go to the Resistance. They'd find a way.

* * *

"So... you want to go home."

"Yes."

Oliver Wood looked unimpressed. "That's it? You're asking our smugglers (Fred and George grinned) to get you onto the Express, where people are literally stopped and searched, just so you can get home. We're in a vital stage of planning, and our forces are short as it is..."

Now that you looked at it that way, it seemed mighty selfish of Sam. Luckily for his continued sanity, Fred chimed in.

"Don't worry, we were planning to go home for the holidays anyways. What's a little extra cargo gonna do?" A sly wink at George.

"It's your choice, Fred." Oliver clearly looked unhappy about this. "Getting caught with a muggleborn is a dangerous thing here."

"Cheer up, Wood..." Fred smiled.

"...We'll show them yet." George finished the sentence.

Uncharacteristically silent, they each took out a lightning badge, the blunted corners reflecting in the light cast by the chandeliers. And for that one split second, Sam felt at peace.

* * *

WINTER HOLIDAY PROCEDURE  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

24th December, 1991

All students to leave are to report to their Heads of House by 6.00 pm, following their last class, where they will be sorted onto the Hogwarts Express.

Only those who have submitted the required forms may leave Hogwarts. Those attempting to leave against Ministry policy and school rules will have their Wizarding rights terminated.

For those who opt to remain, a Christmas Feast will be held on the night of the 25th. During the holidays, the Library, Common rooms, and Great Hall will be open for use by all students, and the Staff Offices will accept students seeking help with their work. All other areas are forbidden unless by express permission from a Professor or Headmaster. Students caught loitering will be punished.

* * *

It was twelve o'clock. Six hours before Sam became a law-breaking fugitive.


	26. Homecoming

**AN:** Sorry it's been so long, guys! Been busy with life and all... :( But I'm back! :)

* * *

Silence. Heat. The suitcase Sam was in was growing uncomfortably hot. It was a t times like these that he wondered whether with all their magic wizards had managed to make cloaking devices yet- or better, a simple invisibility spell. (He'd spent an entire day fantasising about the name... Inivisio... Disvisio... Illusio... Disillusio... (Though that didn't make any sense, after all, disillusion meant REMOVING illusion, in this case invisibility, not adding it. He briefly chastised himself for being so stupid.)

Unfortunately, since nobody actually knew such a spell (if it even existed), so Sam was stuck travelling in Fred's luggage, which he had kindly expanded. Sadly, Fred didn't know any charms for food, or cold pumpkin juice, but he did set a Cooling Charm at first- which was clearly wearing off. According to the footstep sounds (Sam had a lot of time to spare), the train lady had just walked past again- she also doubled as train guard. He decided to risk a peek.

As luck would have it, his suitcase was at the very end, resting at the top of a pile of other suitcases and the occasional owl cage, for those who didn't have the temperament to keep their owls with them. He briefly caught sight of a beautiful snow-white owl, something he'd never be able to afford. He fantasised about owning a pet like that. What would he name it? Briefly flipping open his copy of Hogwarts: A history, he saw a nice name- Hedwig. Yes, it sounded good. But he'd never get an owl like that. If he was lucky, he might save up enough to buy a rat.

With a rumble, the doors to his carriage opened, and Sam ducked back in to the suitcase, which was about the size of a closet. Shutting the suitcase, he curled back up- the Cooling Charm was definitely wearing off now. Sighing, he turned back to sleep. It came quickly.

* * *

When Sam awoke once more, he was moving. Not Hogwarts Express moving- Actual moving, as if he was in a car of some sort, on a... was it a motorway? He wasn't sure. Opening the suitcase again, he poked his head out. What he saw was... surprising.

He was on the road alright. In the distance, the fast fading silhouette of King's Cross was just visible against the horizon. Sam was ready to yell for someone, anyone, until he realised what was happening.

He was being kidnapped. By the Weasleys. Or at least Fred was an accomplice.

Screaming probably wouldn't help. Poking his head out further, he noticed that he was, in fact, in the boot of a small car, one with a pale blue outer shell. It didn't help that he was terrible with cars, but at least he recognised this one: It was a Ford Anglia. His father had pointed it out to him one day when they were checking out his prospected primary school. "See that?" He said. "That's a Ford Anglia. I used to drive one of those." It made him angry, in a weird way, that a part of his childhood was now being used to help kidnap him. It also made him very, very scared. Would he ever see his family again? And to think, the Weasleys had seemed so nice...

He barely noticed when the Ford Anglia pulled into what seemed like several huts stacked on top of one another. He had to escape. Then Fred's face loomed over him.

"Fred, what-" Sam blurted out, scared out of his wits.

"Shh... I had to get you past the checkpoints without anyone noticing. They don't know you're here."

"What?"

"Shhhhh. Mum's gonna go nuts if she realised I smuggled a first year in."

In the distance, Ms. Weasley was calling for Fred.

"Coming- Talk to you later." With a slam, the suitcase snapped shut.

" _Colloportus_."

And the suitcase was locked. It would be a long time before Sam got to talk to anyone again.

* * *

"Hello, anymore here?"  
It was late at night.

"Finally letting me out?" Sam was more than a little miffed.

"Look, dinner took forever, alright? And Ginny kept talking, and..."

"How did you get out?"

Sam was sitting on the bed, the case open. Fred's textbooks laid scattered across the floor. Sam was leafing through a rather threadbare version of Fred's second year potions textbook. Several pages were missing, and several more barely clung on. He barely looked up as Fred asked the question.

"Well, I've been thinking. Colloportus is supposed to lock a suitcase, yeah?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, guess what I found." Sam held up a pair of pins.

"Aww... come on, we were trying that muggle thing, y'know, the lockpick thing?" Fed took the pins and gestured picking a lock... as it was done in, perhaps, Hollywood action movies.

"Turns out, it doesn't work on locks locked with magic. I tried slipping a sheet of paper out, and when that worked, I realised that the magic only affected the lock itself."

"How'd you get the paper?"

Sam grinned, holding up a sheet of lined note paper. "It never hurts to be prepared, eh?"

"Anyways, I used the pins to pick open the screws (Sam held up several screws) and here I am. By the way, where's the chapter on, um, advanced material calculations?"

Fred looked abashed.

"Well, that, er..."

"Oh, and why do wizard suitcases have these... screws? I thought everything was bolted on with magic."

"Well, it's from my dad and he's a stickler for muggle things so-"

"Fred, who're you talking to there."

Fred's face went white.

"Bollocks, it's mum. Quick hide-"

"Fred? What've you got in here- FRED WEASELEY!"


	27. Home Again

If there was one thing Fred was afraid of, it was his mother.

"Fred Weasley, why is there a child in your suitcase?" She turned to Sam, who cowered.

"Sorry, dear, you're not to blame. You must be hungry. Here, come down- I've got some soup ready." As Sam was being walked down, Ms. Weasley shot Fred several burning glances that would have killed Umbridge and buried her several thousand feet under the ground.

Leading Sam into the rather cramped kitchen, Ms. Weasley sat Sam in front of a rather awkward looking clock which consisted of all too many words and not at all enough numbers.

"Umm..."

"Yes, speak up, dear, don't worry. Samuel, is it?"

"Yes, Ms. Weasley. If you don't mind (for he was still a little scared) telling me, what's the clock for?"

Apparently, the clock was supposed to be used to track down each member of the family- Sam politely declined to ark why Arthur Weasley was quivering between _Prison_ and _Mortal Peril_. At any rate, the soup was delicious, if a bit hot.

"So, Ms. Weasley, how did you, um, purchase that car? I mean, not, no I mean, um, since you're wizards..."

"It used to belong to Arthur, dear. He tells me it was going to fly." She grows quiet. "But that was so long ago now."

"Oh, um, really sorry, Ms. Weasley. I think I'll pop back home now, so if you won't mind giving me a bit of a ride..."

"I'll call Fred. It's the least he can do."

"You don't drive, Ms. Weasley? No offence..."

"Well, dear, I never really got the hang of the whole steering thing, if you get me. Muggles. Always making things more complicated than they need to be- that's nothing against Muggles, of course. All right, off with you, dear, your parents must be worried to death."

As it turns out, Fred drove a lot quicker when his mother wasn't watching.

* * *

It was night when Fred drove the Ford Anglia, with Sam holding on for dear life, up to Number 10 Privet Drive. A woman briefly peeked out of Number Four, turned away in disgust, and walked off. Sam didn't care.

His mother opened the door on the third knock. "Yes, I'm coming- OH!"

Sam tried hard not to cry. His mother still looked just the same as she always had, dressed in a crisp white shirt. Her long brown hair was tied in a bun, a textbook in her hand. A note drifted, slowly, to the ground. "John- My house tmr. Eight at night. Bring your socks."

"I didn't know you were-"

The boy in front of his mother, a scant creature of eleven years, melted into her arms.

"I'm just... happy to be home."

There was very little else said.

* * *

A shadow on the walls. Silence. Dolores Umbridge twisted and turned in her sleep. The shadow began to grow, and from within, a slithering voice emerged.

"I have come... As you asssked. Ssssneaking past the guards was not easssy."

Dolores Umbridge was fully awake. She had never felt more so. "I've made it easier already. McGonagall's already getting suspicious."

"Indeed. You have done me a great service, Umbridge." The voice, speaking under a hood, seemed to solidify.

"And in return..."

"Minister of Education."

"I will see about the Apparition charm. Perhaps Dumbledore could be persuaded..."

"The old _fool_. He would never change his mind. No, we musst find another ssssolution. Sssssee you sssssoon..."

And with that, the shadow collapsed once more, drifting away into the night. Dolores Umbridge went back to sleep. It was as if nothing had happened.


	28. New Year's Eve

_A travers du monde_ , firecrackers were sent off, parties held, newly opened Christmas presents thrown away, Hanukkah candles plucked off, solstice calendars discarded, and people were people in general, as the year of 1991 came to an end. The Soviet Union was well and truly on the way out, and to most of Western society, a great evil had fallen. Somewhat anticlimactically, yes, but fallen all the same. To most normal people, the year had been a fairly good one.

Samuel Wright was not most people.

He sat in his small bedroom, surrounded by books he now knew were objectively untrue, having torn down the Richard Feynman poster on his wall. Magic was real. MAGIC WAS REAL. There was a sort of understated despair he felt every time he repeated that statement. Perhaps other kids his age, those with problematic families, would have welcomed such a statement, heck, if he felt that the world was a bloody mess, perhaps he would have as well. But he was fine with this world. He liked the way everything was just right, and everything could be explained, and there was an _order_ to things.

But now he realised that there was an entirely new layer to this world, one that did not even blink an eye when the so-called laws of his world were disobeyed, one that removed memories and treated gravity like a toy. Since returning home, he had stashed his wand under his bed, daring not to use it, partly out of some fear for retribution (what if somebody saw it?), and partly out of some unspoken desire that if he perhaps simply ignored the wand, everything would go away, and he could go back to a world of science and maths, where magical wizards were part of his favourite line of comic books and not reality.

Alas, he knew it was not to be. Every now and then, he would receive letters, some plastered with stamps (the Weasleys), one sent through the window with the name half-written by a very confused owl (Neville), and one immaculately printed in standard format. The last one was from Hermione Granger, sent shortly before Christmas. Having not talked much last year, he relished a letter from somebody who seemed to know what letters were for.

Ripping open the paper as his parents looked on curiously, he pulled out a sheet of fine, normal paper, the sort you could buy in the shop down at the town centre. While most of it was simply chatter about life and such, she did volunteer to help with any of his homework problems (which seemed to be her de facto way of communication with the outside world), and suggested that they meet at "the room", which she contented was "completely against the rules but really the right thing to do". Having sensibly enclosed her own address, he sent a friendly letter by muggle mail back, with a few questions attached. So it was with Hermione, over mail, during the winter, that he found another muggleborn voice through which to find his own concerns answered (by copious quotation from Hogwarts: A History and a handful of guesses), such that when the trains departed for Hogwarts and he found himself slowly suffocating in a suitcase again, he had at least a smidgen more hope for the new year ahead.

* * *

And... I'm back! Somehow. Really, that break was far too long. Hopefully will update more often from now.


	29. Quidditch and Raiding

Brillig.

Fred, under the cover of the gas from a volley of dungbombs, quietly stole towards Umbridge's office. Inside his pocket he held the Marauders Map, showing Umbridge safely waiting in the Great Hall, no doubt taking her temper out on some unsuspecting Gryffindor (he reminded himself to pay back the poor schmuck on distraction duty later). Next to him, George's Bubble-head charm flickered unsteadily, the dull brown gas masking his face. Each held a hollow tube through which the other could hear them speak, something they hoped to turn into a product someday. A whisper.

"Where's Filch?"

Glancing down, Fred drew out his wand to tap on the Map. Come on, come on...

"Down the hallway, trying to clean up the mess. I set off around fifteen just to be sure."

"Assault mode, then." Fred nodded in silent agreement.

Dropping to a hazy crouch, the pair advanced, wands out, looking to all the world like a duo of particularly inept frogs waddling down a hallway. Thankfully, the world consisted of nobody at the moment, nobody except-

"****!"

"Language, George! What would our mother-"

"Fred! The inquisitors! They're still here!"

Sure enough, two rather unruly Slytherins, each with a lopsided, hurriedly cast Bubble-head charm, were standing stiffly on guard next to the door of Umbridge's office. The good news- the door was left open, and in the mess nobody seemed to notice. The bad news- Fred and George were very, very noticeable. Glinting in the dim, flickering light of the torches, the silver "I" badge seemed to look down upon the intruders, silently judging them for their misdeeds.

"You know what we have to do, Fred."

* * *

"So, how do you play Quidditch?" Sam asked, for perhaps the twentieth time, as Ron hurriedly tugged him towards the stands. Next to them, Hermione, who had followed along, had her head in a book as usual. Privately, Sam marvelled at how she could still read with the January sky being as grey as it was, all while leaving neat, careful footsteps in the several inch thick snow the students trudged through as they headed for the stands.

"C'mon, Sam, I've explained this to you like, twice. Look, there's a bludger, a snitch-"

"No, as in, what strategy do you use? I mean, any sane team would just spread everyone out looking for the snitch-"

"But only the Seeker can catch the snitch-"

"So there's, like, this entirely separate game of catch the golden bird- sorry, flying ball based on a bird, that's overlaid onto the magical equivalent of basketball?"

"Explain basketball to me again?"

"Nevermind. I mean, from the way you describe it, the snitch almost seems like an afterthought-"

"It was! Charlie told me the snitch started when a referee would bring this tiny bird to the stadium-"

"Silence, both of you. Such incessant chatter will not be permitted. Five points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff." Snape, clearly in a bad mood, swept through the students in a manner reminiscent of the Black Death, though larger and mildly more terrifying. A mild sneer touched his lips when he came across Hermione.

"School books are not permitted on the grounds. Give that to me. Five points from Ravenclaw for violation of the school rules."

"But, sir, it's not listed in the rules-"

"The rules are as I see fit. One more point for talking back. I will not tolerate such insolence from my students."

Hermione's face turned a pale shade of pink under the cold. Saying nothing more, she hurried to catch up to Sam and Ron.

"Boy, Snape is a git, isn't he?" Ron mouthed under his breath as they found their seats in the stands.

"Ron!" Hermione was mortified- less out of respect for Snape, Sam guessed, and more because she had just lost her house six points.

"Yeah, he is." Sam replied, pulling out a white bishop piece.

"Finally lettin' me out, eh?" The bishop looked midly miffed that he had been hidden in a boy's robes for so long, but seemed to enjoy the cold air- something the humans of the crowd definitely didn't. As they waited for the match to start, warming their hands pensively, Neville appeared, or rather, tripped, into their presence. "H-hey," he sputtered, puffs of warm air wafting into the cloudy sky as he spoke. "Pretty cold, huh?" As he spoke, his head seemed to shrink into his robes, his grandmother's hand-knitted scarf mysteriously nowhere to be found.

"Neville, where's your scarf?" Sam asked.

Looking rather lost, Neville tugged blankly at his neck. "I- I must have misplaced it somewhere. Fumbling around, he pulled out a small glass ball- a Remembrall, which, as predicted, turned red. This was actually his second Remembrall, Sam thought. After his first one had been stolen by Malfoy in that disastrous flying lesson (he shuddered at the memory), his grandmother had thought to mail him another one, accompanied by a rather stern letter telling him to try not to lose it again.

"Here, you can take mine." Hermione gingerly removed her own, brown scarf, handing it to Neville, whose face turned pink. "The rules don't exactly make it clear, but I think this is fine."

Withdrawing a small glass bottle, similar to the ones from Potions (Sam's least favourite subject), she murmured a light incantation, and to their collective wonder, a small stream of blue fire sprung out, filling the bottle with a warm glow.

"It's harder than I thought, especially since none of the teachers are allowed to help us with spellwork, but I got it to function properly anyways." With a sort of narrow grin, she tucked it under her robes. By then, of course, the match had kicked off. (Sam dimly remembered it as being between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, but didn't care all that much)

* * *

Creeping up to one of the Slytherin guards, Fred threw a small round ball directly at the girl's face, yelling- "Catch!"

Too late, the inquisitor managed to catch the flying dungbomb, which at her touch exploded- directly within her bubble-head charm, inches from her nose. Coughing from the sudden explosion of rather unpalatable smell that had forced its way into her nose, the inquisitor abandoned all pretence of standing guard and rushed off into the hallway. Turning to George, who had done the same to another guard, he grinned.

"Boy, sure glad we got the extra colouring in these homemade order dungbombs, aren't we?" He whispered over the tube."

"We sure are," George replied. Pushing open the door to her office, the twins crept into the pink dungeon that was the official roost for the Hogwarts High Inquisitor.

* * *

"And the Ravenclaw catcher is hit by a bat from the Slytherin Beater- accident, of course, showing their inferiority by letting in yet another quaffle." A bored, rather slow drawl came from the announcements stand, leaving no question the winner of the match.

"Why do they even hold these anymore?" Sam asked to Ron, who seemed as dejected as he was even after his professed love of the sport.

"For the Slytherins to lord themselves over us mortals, I guess. Makes me kind of sad I didn't get into Hufflepuff now."

"Why?"

"At least no one expects you to win in Hufflepuff. Sometimes... With the whole resistance thing it almost feels like everyone's counting on you to win, you know? To pull some magic sword out of a hat and just be the heroes again."

In the distance, the game continued. "Another penalty for Slytherin... Seems Slytherin is heading for the House Cup for the eleventh year in a row... Score..."

And the skies continued to darken. Eventually it began to rain, and Slytherin won 200-50, mostly because the Ravenclaw Seeker refused to catch the Snitch.

* * *

Fred saw pink. Well, to be more accurate, Fred was bombarded with pink. Everywhere he saw, kittens, fluffiness, and pink seemed to jump at him. Had he not known the true nature of Umbridge, that would have been almost cute. As it was now, he had one focus. The Hat. Next to him, George had already begun rifling through the drawers. Papers flew. Confidential letters, plans for future "Decrees", spare Inquisitor pins. These Fred took great pains to transfigure into multiple rubber rats which he placed next to the cat pictures.

"Anything, George?" He asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Nothing. Guess we go through the wardrobes next."

And there were many. Every shade of pink was covered in a desperate effort to introduce variety to a rather one-note affair, and George managed, with great effort, to rumple every single outfit. And it was the back of the last wardrobe, next to the door to Umbridge's office, that Fred found a switch in the form of a kitten, which meowed (meowed? How did kittens speak?)

"I can only be opened by Dolores Umbridge, High Inquisitor."

"The ring, the ring!" George mumbled to Fred, who was busy checking the Marauders Map for the return of Umbridge. Grinning, Fred passed over one of Umbridge's gold rings stolen in the Sniffler raid during the Hufflepuff initiation session. Pressing the ring against the kitten, the kitten swung open to reveal a small cupboard with a few trinkets, a locket of some sort, and there- on the top shelf-

The Sorting Hat, with a pink ribbon wrapped around the scruffy, patched brim.

* * *

As they walked back to Hufflepuff tower, Sam decided to drop Neville off at dinner and head to the Room instead. When he arrived, the entire dorm was empty.


	30. A Friend in Need

The teacher, a stuffy Ministry official who knew very little of actual Arithmetic, haphazardly scrawled equations on the board verbatim from the (equally ignorant) textbook. Sam was not a bright maths student by any means, but even he could see that most of the Ministry textbook was simply wrong. What was not false, however, was the official teacher's preference for docking points.

"Sir, division by zero-"

"It isn't true-"

"The theorem-"

By the end of class, Sam found himself once more rather unpopular. Head held down, he headed straight for Charms, where he ran into Hermione.

"Hullo." he murmured, rather abashed.

"What's wrong?" Hermione, who was already well onto her way at floating paperweights- the actual spells would not be tested, be the theory would certainly be.

"Well, um..." Sam found himself rather tongue-tied. He had never really had to speak to a girl before, and his letters with Hermione were abstract enough that he simply imagined her as one of his regular friends.

"Lost your house a lot of points again?" Hermione asked, idly making the glass paperweight stand on one corner.

"How did you know?" Sam shot back, clearly confused.

"There's that look on your face... I used to have that face a lot." She smiled sheepishly. "Being Ravenclaw isn't much fun, you know."

"Why were you sorted into Ravenclaw in the first place, anyways?" Sam managed to get his rubber up to the height of his eyes, but only for a few seconds.

"Oh!" Hermione's face turned pink. "At the sorting, there was a voice- well, there were two, one told me to remember the phrase Lemon Drop-"

"You got the warning as well?" Sam turned excitedly. In all of the humdrum surrounding his first year at magic school, he had almost forgotten the cryptic warning given to him by a talking hat of all things- now that he thought of it, there had been some talk of an operation to get it back. Perhaps that was why the dorms were all empty last night.

"Yeah."

"But then what did you say to Umbridge?" Now Sam was curious how her encounter with the Demon Witch- err, High Inquisitor had went.

"Well, she asked me if I wanted to follow the rules, and I... said yes. And- and then, well... I got sorted into Ravenclaw. Oh!" Hermione hung her head low, as if she were rather ashamed. With a resolute clang, the paperweight had fallen onto the desk. Professor Flitwick's head jerked upwards, then turned back to Neville, who was having considerably more trouble.

"W-win... wingardium..." She tried to cast the spell again for a few seconds, then gave up.

Sam felt rather perplexed. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to follow the rules."

Hear she turned to him, tears clearly streaking down her face. "B-but then I g-got into Ravenc-claw and... I saw, I saw..."

"What did you see?"

"The r-rules are wrong, Sam!" The last words had come out in a shriek, as the entire class turned to look at the star student, now crying. With a terrified yelp, she ran out of the room. Professor Flitwick stared at Sam with a strange look on his face, a mixture of bemusement and suspicion. Feeling rather flummoxed and most certainly too scared to run after her, Sam resolved himself to quietly levitating his rubber for the rest of the lesson. It did not work well.

* * *

Sam, with Neville and the Map's help (the map, perhaps, more than Neville), found Hermione in the girl's bathroom, crying in a stall, alone. Standing outside the toilet, Neville looked at Sam uncertainly. "Should I go in?" he whispered.

"No." Sam replied with more confidence than he felt he had. "I'll do this on my own."

"I'm coming in with you." Neville, for what was perhaps the first time in his life, seemed to show a spark of courage.

"Why?" Sam, making frantic panic gestures towards the now determined Neville, watched as his friend walked in to comfort Hermione. Was that... Bravery?

For a second, Sam wanted to chase after him, to try and apologise for whatever he had done to make his friend cry. But then again, he thought, he didn't know Hermione that well at all. What if he made things worse? For all he knew, Neville was secretly a professional counsellor- no, he had to try, at least. Steeling himself, he noticed that the crying from inside the stalls had stopped. Before he had time to wonder-

Neville emerged, face glowing red, with a mildly smiling Hermione following him. Raising a weak hand in farewell, he rushed off into the hallway. Sam stared, dumbfounded, at Hermione, who seemed to be alright.

"H... hi." Well, this was awkward. He thought to himself. Surely I didn't just lose a friend to... Neville, did I? No, he chastised himself, that was a terrible way to put it. Neville was his friend, after all. Looking rather sheepish, Hermione returned the greeting.

"Hello."

"So... are you alright?" His legs were trembling, Sam noticed.

"Yeah," Hermione gave a small smile. "I got a bit worked up back there. It's just, you know, I used to like following the rules, being a good girl and... you know. My parents liked me, my teachers liked me. and then I got to go to Hogwarts, and my parents told me that that was a reward for being such a good girl, and I would get to learn all sorts of new things... And for a while I thought Ravenclaw was my house. Everyone liked to follow the rules there and it was... quiet. Nice." her face turned dark. "But nobody really wanted to learn. They all just sort of... were, you know? Good, and nice, and quiet, and good at following the rules, but no one actually wanted to learn new things. Penelope told me that there used to be a doorknob that you had to answer questions from to get in but apparently they took that away, and you just say a password now about magic." She took a deep breath.

"And here... Most of the teachers are really nice people, but the Ministry... it's just so wrong. All of it. There's very little evidence that anything in our textbooks are true. I mean, I tried going to the Room to look up the old editions of textbooks, and they are nothing like this! I guess that's why I've been more distant this year. And after that run-in with the troll... I wanted to find Neville and Ron and you, to be friends, but this just wouldn't go away and, well, it's been a lot harder to cope with than regular school. And I agreed to get into the resistance, and then I found all of the defence books and I just sort of... retreated, I guess. I really did enjoy the moments when I wasn't trying to figure all of this out, with Quidditch and regular classes... I didn't make many friends with the other Ravenclaws, though. That all came out really long-winded, didn't it?"

"Don't worry", Sam murmured absentmindedly. He had been so enamoured with the idea of a magical school and textbooks that he had never really tried to study where they came from, aside from his first few weeks, when he was still settling in. After that, well, his badge didn't really seem that big of a problem any more, and he just sort of... melted into school life. Sure, he had welcomed the resistance, but that was only on a superficial level. Then again...

"Where are they, anyways?"

"Who?" Hermione asked, still rather quiet.

"The Gryffindors. What happened to the Resistance? Have you seen any Gryffindors today, Hermione?"

"No... But then the teachers really didn't say much. Umm... the Gryffindors were missing from the roll call... No!"

Hearing the alarm in her voice, Sam turned to face her directly. "What?"

"The raid on Umbridge's office for the Sorting Hat! I was going to tell them!" Hermione's face turned a sheet of pure white.

"What happened, Hermione?"

"I was talking to some of the Ravenclaws, and they mentioned that Umbridge keeps several spare Inquisitor pins for any good Ravenclaws to get, you know, like Prefect pins."

"What about that?"

"The pins... they act like telephones. Muggle telephones. And they're always on. Umbridge can hear everything inside her office."

* * *

"The serf has been presented with the wand, my lord."

"Good... Does he produce sparks?"

"No, my lord."

"Then you have failed. Try again. _Kill the spare_."

"As you wish, my lord. **AVADA KEDAVRA!** "

The sound of a man unable to speak crying out died rapidly amongst the sounds of the forest.

* * *

 **Note:** Doesn't that just make you feel warm and fuzzy? Fear not, dear readers, it does get better (after it gets worse).


	31. Dungeonside Chat in the Common Room (I)

Many, many years ago.

 **Hogwarts, Slytherin Common Room**

I was looking through the forbidden section the other day. Of course, I had to float some pretence of researching for N.E.W.T. level potions to old Slughorn, but he didn't really seem to care. To be fair, I expected him to be more on guard after the rather... pointed questions a few weeks ago, but the old fool seems to have barely noticed. All the better. Perhaps, when my inevitable rise is complete, I'll leave him alive, his greatest "catch". Or perhaps I'd kill him. Makes no difference, really.

It's quite a surprise, how many books Hogwarts has regarding the reigns of various dark wizards, English or otherwise. The short-lived reign of Rasputin, in what is now Leningrad, and Albus' old friend Grindelwald in particular have come to my attention. As I sit here in the cold, damp dungeons, my mind seemingly cannot escape these two fateful wizards. And so I commit these thoughts to writing, in the hopes of finding a release.

First, then, the story of the less widely known. Perhaps more in Russia than here, the name of Rasputin seems to have concerned a certain wizard, whether of half-blood or otherwise, who rose to prominence under one of their kings after what clearly appeared to be the illicit use of healing magic on one of the royal family- then again, I hear that the Soviet government is rather welcoming of those with... unconventional talents into its ranks, so perhaps that was not as much illicit as expected, even with their predecessors. The Russians, far more than the foolish Wizengamot, understand the power of wizardry far more than any who sit in the decaying halls of the Ministry: Not to be repressed, but to be welcomed. Of course, even those with magic do not quite have the numbers necessary to rule yet- but I have reasons enough to suspect that at least one of the soviet dictators is possessive of magical heritage.

Nevertheless, I return to the tale of Rasputin. According to folklore, history, and legend, Rasputin rose to a position of preeminence within the royal family, wherein the rumours of his magical aptitude spread, and he was killed (rather brutally, I hear) in the violence that ensued toppling the old monarchy. but his name remains, and according to several of my sources within the Ministry, he now survives as a rather rich exile in Northern Romania, perhaps the headmaster of some school or another in the region. If I have the time, I must attempt to contact this legend. Now, however, I move to the second story, one perhaps, even more than the first, layered with myth and uncertainty.

* * *

Test season, updates will be limited :(


	32. Dungeonside Chat in the Common Room (II)

Gellert Grindelwald. Few names carry as much weight within are current political climate than this one. To mention it is casual conversation is akin to committing a _faux pas_ , to name him in any other terms than the explicitly negative an act of extreme public disgrace. His notoriety, it seems, has spread beyond the Continent where his greatest deeds were done, but rather back to his homeland, England. In him, perhaps more than any other, I see a great kinship.

From what I hear of his youth, mostly from old dotards who cannot keep their mouths shut when presented with the correct spirits and careful combination of gifts, he was a most... brilliant student. Troubled, certainly, but definitely brilliant. Perhaps more acutely than any other wizard alive (save perhaps our own Dumbledore, who looks upon me each passing day with growing suspicion as I write these words), he understood the thesis of wizardry, the power that comes with being magical. And I do mean magical. Not wizard-like or witch-like, not possessing of magic, but magical. To be infused with magic, to channel it through you, like so many in our community do every day but with awareness of the raw, shocking POWER that passes through each incantation. Our men and women today seem ashamed of wizardry, ashamed of their heritage, the right being magical gives them. We lock our magic behind bars, craft laws and rules and restrictions and statutes and acts, dragons forging their own shackles while bowing down to puny humans.

We fear ourselves, the magic that courses through us, that makes us different fundamentally from the hordes of muggles we struggle to blend in with. Our power is made mundane, a mere object of learning, to be harnessed and used to maintain the status quo. We give time travel to children for use in classes, for Merlin's sake! The greatest magical minds of a generation seek not to expand the influence of wizardry, but to keep it in the shadows. The minds who wrote the Statue of Secrecy were no doubt great, but they were hopelessly limited, trying to be something they clearly were not. Grindelwald saw this, and acted.

He knew, unlike the rotting minds of the time, that wizardry had to expand to prosper. The Romans remarked that the best defence was a strong attack, and he did the things he had to do in order to let wizardry prosper once more. But to succeed, he first had to remove the stale and decaying culture that stopped him. And so he did what the wizards of old gained notoriety for- He gathered followers, amassed great collections of dark and terrible magic, and set about to terrorise Europe. I sometimes wonder if he sympathised with the muggle rulers fighting their own wars at the time, those who believed that their particular colour of skin alone would serve as right to dictate the future of humanity. No, he would not have been such a fool. Wizardry confers true power, and those who hold us back must be cast aside for the greater good.

Here, however, is where his tale departs from the tradition of the most notorious dark wizards- where others prospered with malice, he was swiftly put to justice. He acted, some said, with almost reluctance, imprisoning his prisoners under the banner of "for the greater good", always seeking to minimise wizard deaths. And through this his weakness was exposed, and the ancient, stagnant order of wizardry wiped him and his followers from the face of Europe. So what if he butchered muggles by the thousands under the guise of war? Had he succeeded, all muggle kind would have known the true rulers of the land. And by Merlin, he came close.

But the greatest, and most painful, betrayal of Grindelwald came at last. His old friend, who had once shared his ideals but had since become attracted to the weak and the soft, and in doing so, became soft himself. Reluctant to fight, reluctant to act, a fool in every way. Dumbledore had no right to rid Grindelwald of his victory. But he did so nonetheless, with a grand duel that broke his will at last. Who was this pretender, this weakling, to rid the righteousness of their worthiness to rule? To, in the end, sacrifice a vision he once shared? To bow to an order he once despised, and become its pawn, in the vain hopes of pretending to be something he never could be? Even the Elder Wand, or at least the rumours of its existence, could not fight the order of our ancestors, the cowardly path spurred on by a fool's magnanimity and compassion. But in his failure, at least, I can see a path for the future, and the completion of his grand dream while he rots yet in a prison of his own design.

If I were, in his path, to summon a group of desperate followers to my side, to wreak havoc throughout England, to leave a mark somehow as a sign of my coming reign, then surely I too would be struck down, if not by the foolish Dumbledore then by another blind follower of the great fools. I would be no better than a mere doppelganger, and a poor imitator at that. Even if my contingency succeeds, and in a few days it may well, and these words be ripped from the page that I write now in service for the immeasurably greater text of my soul, I would be a doppelganger with two tries, or three, never more. But if I were to be Rasputin... Invisible, silent, influencing the order from within, to be more quiet and less visible, to install puppets of my own design, then the foolish protectors of this crumbling Ministry may well become my pawns. Dumbledore would never bow- I must find someone who will, then.

Either way, in a few days, my first step in the path towards the ultimate salvation of wizardry shall be taken, and there shall be no return. And those lives that are lost, and there will be many, will be lost for the greater good.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, 19XX

* * *

 **Note:** This is the last part of the chapter I started a couple days ago. I do _NOT_ believe any of this bollocks, all of this is in service of creating a better villain with a more believable plan than "Hitler but with snake skulls".


	33. (Not) The Talk

Harried footsteps echoed down the long, torch lit halls of Hogwarts, as Samuel Longbottom and his friend, Neville, rushed towards the Gryffindor common room. Behind them, Hermione Granger, wand out, desperately searched the map inscribed behind her immaculately maintained class schedule for the next turn.

"Left here."

"Right."

"Keep going forward."

The hallways faded into a blur, the pair finding new strength in their desperation as they dashed through increasingly graffiti filled hallways. They were three corridors away from the common room when-

"And what might you three children be doing?" A stern voice echoed around the corner. Green robes, with an even darker green hat. But darkest of all were her eyes.

Professor McGonagall, Deputy headmistress of Hogwarts, stared said three children down with a stare that might have felled a troll all by its lonesome.

Sam looked up, into those unapproachable depths, and felt himself trip. Scrabbling to pick himself up, he panted- "Wanted- to- visit-"

"It's illegal to wander the hallways without supervision, did you not know?"

Hermione, a look of abject panic on her face, began to cut in. "We didn't realise-"

It was then that another pair of footsteps began to echo down the hallway, with a sickly sweet voice that followed. "Minerva, my dear, are those children I hear?"

McGonagall's face, inscrutable and mysterious, seemed to darken for a split second. Then she made a decision. "The children are with me, Dolores. They were merely here to ask for some homework advice, and got lost."

"Is that so? Don't let me stop you, then, my dear. After all, we all have our... priorities... to get to, don't we?" A sickening laugh, then the voice receded once more.

"All of you, with me. Now."

She didn't need to repeat herself. Falling silent, the two Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw followed McGonagall, who navigated the halls with almost instinctual ease, pulling them into her office, all while maintaining a face of stone. Once they sat down, she took out what, to them, seemed like the last thing possible.

A tin of cookies.

Sam wrinkled his brow in confusion. Neville seemed relieved that she didn't pull out a torture device. Her face now seemingly more relaxed, she sat down herself in the large, imposing wood backed chair behind the table.

"Please, feel free to take a biscuit, children. You are perfectly safe here."

As if to demonstrate her point, she ate a cookie herself. Reaching out tentatively, Sam took a cookie and popped it in his mouth. A mild feeling of calm washed over him, although he didn't know if it was the cookie or the fact that he wasn't dead just yet. Hermione, however, had other ideas.

"Professor, they were your students!" she blurted out, uncharacteristically loud.

Looking at her with more regret than Sam thought possible, McGonagall simply replied. "Indeed, Miss Granger."

"So what happens to the Gryffindors now?" it seemed the only responsible question.

Turning back to Sam, McGonagall said quietly, "Two Gryffindors were found in Umbridge's office, attempting to steal the Sorting Hat. As punishment, the House will be temporarily removed from classes and placed in indefinite suspension until further developments as the Ministry sees fit."

"Bollocks!" Sam had never personally used the swear word before, not when he meant it, but he had heard his father say the word enough times, and recognised a situation for the word when he saw one. "They're probably- no, definitely in Snape's dungeon right now, and Filch-"

"I would advise against using such language in the face of your teachers, Mister Wright. Under normal circumstances I would remove points, but given the situation..." For a second she turned away- Sam even saw the edges of her eyes moisten, as if trying to hold back tears. "I'm afraid there is nothing that you can do for your Gryffindor friends right now, children. The Ministry has made clear that it will not tolerate such subversive behaviour, especially from... Muggle borns."

The badge rubbed against Sam's robes.

"Surely even you can see that Umbridge is evil, Professor!" Sam yelled, hearing the shocked gasp of Hermione for the second time.

Here the sternness returned to McGonagal's face. "No matter what you feel, Wright, calling your teachers evil is unacceptable. As I have said, these are trying circumstances, but I shall have to give you a detention if you persist in this sort of behaviour."

"So what are we supposed to do? Sit and hope the Gryffindors show up all right at the end of the year?"

The silence was long and heavy, hanging like a Dementor in the enclosed space of McGonagall's office. When McGonagal spoke again, it was with a bitter finality.

"I expect all of you to return to your Common Rooms promptly, children. Misters Wright and Longbottom, I must warn you that such behaviour is, and remains, completely unacceptable. As for you, Miss Granger, I am extremely disappointed that you were not the voice of restraint I hoped you would be to your friends. You are all dismissed- dinner is over, and curfew begins in thirty minutes. I shall see you all tomorrow, and I expect you all to be on your best behaviour as expected of Hogwarts students from now on." With a shove, the door to Professor McGonagall's office closed behind her, casting the pair out into the flickering halls of Hogwarts once more.


	34. (Not) The End

Helplessness.

It was a subject that had often come up in Sam's stories, when a hero was faced off against a villain of epic proportions. Sometimes the problem was obvious (giant evil glowing eye) and sometimes less obvious (robot with second clause of First Law disabled escapes), but always with a melodramatic flair, almost daring you to read it and say "well, in another three pages the villain will either be defeated or the sequel gets busy because the book only has three pages left." The problem was almost always a person, or a thing, or a giant space demon from hell, and it was always Evil with a capital E. That, or you pulled an Ozymandias (his father had disapproved of him checking out a "graphic novel" from the adult section but he had to try anyways), and ended the story before the heroes even arrived.

This felt like the last scenario, but worse. The enemy was not a single person (although not for lack of trying), it was, quite literally, the system that controlled magic. They had armies, departments, organisational capacity beyond imagination, and even owned the very grounds on which he was walking right now. Nameless, faceless, but perfectly capable of crushing opposition with one of its many agents. To fight Umbridge as a muggle-born was to fight the Wizarding World itself, at least if the badges were anything to go by.

Alone, Sam prowled the empty library during breakfast, when everyone else was presumably at the Great Hall. Even Hermione had gone in search of food, but the events from last night, and McGonagall's bitter dismissal of their concerns, hung heavy on him. This was what helplessness felt like. Even the Sorting Hat, which by all narrative logic should have given him some vital clue, give him the name of a... sweet? Lemon drops. What on earth could...

"Greetings, Mister Wright. Kindly explain why you are here why your fellow students are enjoying breakfast in the Great Hall." Of course, it had to be Snape. Seeing his trademark sneer and knowing exactly what was coming next, Sam found a sudden reserve of strength. If he was going to get detention, he might as well go out swinging.

"Well, seeing as one table is completely empty I thought I'd look around for my friends. On second thought, perhaps I should have tried the dungeon first."

To his immense surprise, Snape's trademark sneer disappeared for a split second, his greasy black hair shrouding his thoughts, tattered robes falling still. Then, to his immense horror, Snape _smiled_.

"I see. You have made good on your promise at the start of the year, Mister Wright. Truly, a greater display of investigative talent has never been seen from a Hufflepuff in all my years at this fine institution." A pause, as Sam felt himself begin to sweat profusely. "Perhaps you would like to join your... friends, Mister Wright? After all, you seem to be very close to certain, ah, _undesirable_ factions at Hogwarts."

He'd finally done it. He'd pissed off Snape, and he was about to be hauled into the dungeons once and for all. He thought about yelling, but the librarian was absent, and what few students there were had scattered the moment Snape made his appearance and eminent displeasure known. What was he thinking? Desperately, he tried to backpedal.

"Well... I... um..."

"That was not a request, Mister Wright. With me. Now." Snape did not wait around. In his final moment of thought before panic set in, Sam blurted out,

"Lemon drop!"

"What?"

* * *

The sneer was gone, raw shock in its place.

"Where, may I ask, did you learn that... _particular_ phrase?" Snape seemed to be, for perhaps the first time in all his years at Hogwarts, absolutely taken aback.

"I... well... I... um..." Sam, having realised that he had no actual idea what that particular phrase actually meant, began to recall a particularly harrowing tale when a child had accidentally cast the equivalent of the "bloody murder" spell towards a foe simply by reading something he had seen in a book. What if this was the Wizarding equivalent of "berk"? Or worse, what if this was some sort of code word for a giant revolution the Weasley twins had somehow charmed into the hat? Had he just given away the muggle-born equivalent of "Tora tora tora"?

To his immense surprise, Snape did not draw his wand and blast his frail body to tiny mudblood confetti, nor did he summon the magic spirit animal/telephone things that he had seen so often. Instead, his face became... inscrutable. Yes, that was the word. What happened next was even more surprising.

He grabbed Sam's hand. "Follow me."

"Am... am I getting expelled?"

"No."

Clearly perplexed, Sam was roughly pulled by Snape, face still decidedly neutral, through a long, twisting, entirely foreign series of corridors, until they came to a pair of stone gargoyles, weathered by age and clearly rarely polished.

"Pass... word." One croaked sadly. Thrusting Sam forward, Snape stared tersely at the boy. "Say it again. Now."

"What?"

"The password."

"You mean..."

"Say it!" A flicker of irritation swept across Snape's face. The password? He clearly expected him to know what it was, but, there was no way... It was with him all along?

"Lemon... lemon drop."

With a smooth tuck of the head, the gargoyles moved aside, revealing a decidedly ancient staircase of finely polished oak. Whoever was behind this staircase, it was important. And to think, the hat had given him the keys to the kingdom all along. If only had had found the door... Perhaps whichever great mage lived here would be able to force Umbridge away, or even stare down the Ministry of Magic! Bubbling with excitement, Sam stepped onto the staircase with Snape, which began to pull them up by its own accord. There was only one question left to ask.

"Who is behind this? Who are we going to see?"

A long silence, as the staircase approached the top of the tower. Then Snape spoke.

"We are going to see the Headmaster."

Sam felt a sudden surge of confusion. The headmaster? The old man who could barely string words together at the opening ceremony? Surely Snape didn't mean... er... Dumblebore, or whatever his name was. By now, the staircase had stopped, and they were standing in front of a large, wooden door. Reaching out a hand, Snape knocked three times, a curt, rigid sound coming from a hand clad in tattered, potion-stained robes. From behind the heavy door, an almost imperceptible voice could be heard, equal parts wheezing and ancient.

"Come in, come in."

Three seconds before the door opened, Snape turned his gaze to Samuel, and Sam felt a great and sudden feeling of absolute vulnerability, a deep-reaching helplessness that was as if he had just laid himself bare before an irate god. As quickly as it approached, the moment passed. As Snape reached out to push the door open, he whispered to Samuel,

"The name is Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore."


	35. The Headmaster

Sam stepped into the Headmaster's office. The room was, perhaps, the opposite of what he expected. The room was large and airy, circular, surrounded by pillars and books. Loads of books. Strange noises could be heard, puffs of smoke coming from little machines that clanked and puffed and whirred. In the corner, spitting clouds of smoke, Sam eyed a model of the first steam engine, built by the Greeks as a child's toy. Whoever this Dumbledore was, he knew a lot. On the walls were maps, diagrams of sorts, including a weird shape that caught Sam's eye- a series of dots on a grid, arranged in such a fashion:

010  
001  
111

For a brief second, Sam thought he recognised the symbol, but he quickly moved on. Next to the strange glyph was one even stranger, a triangle, split in half by a line, and a circle enclosed within. Magical geometry, perhaps? But by now Snape had stiffly pushed him forward, and conjured a hard-backed wooden chair upon which Sam was invited to sit. And then, at long last, Sam's eyes landed on the man himself.

He immediately took back everything he had said about Albus Dumbledore. Beneath the haggard face, the beard, and the warped spectacles, under the stupid wizard floppy hat, were a pair of blue eyes so intensely aware, so jaw-droppingly electric, it was as though he were communicating with the wisdom of all those who had come before in its entirety, along with something else, a force so powerful and foreign that Sam had no frame of reference for it. In the space of one second it was immediately clear to Sam- Albus Dumbledore was not a force to be underestimated. But he was also smiling, a kind, grandfatherly smile, one that put him at peace even as those clear eyes seemed to peer straight into his soul.

Dumbledore spoke. "So, Mr. Wright, what gives me the pleasure of meeting you today?"

Snape stepped in. "He knows the password, professor. I do not know how, but he knows."

"Thank you, Severus, that will be enough. I should like to speak with the boy privately, now." He winked (winked!) at Sam, then waved Snape away. With a resounding thunk, the door snapped closed. And now they were alone. Noting the badge on Sam's chest, Dumbledore began to speak again.

"It is rare that I have had the joy of speaking, alone, with a Hufflepuff. Please, feel free to talk- if there is anything you wish to tell me. I understand that this year has been.. difficult for you." He eyed, not in a hostile way, the badge that Sam had almost completely forgotten about.

And so he spoke. The entire thing, from start to finish, from realising physics was practically useless all the way to taunting Snape in the library. Throughout it all, Dumbledore remained silent. At the end, Sam realised that he must have been speaking for the better part of a half hour, and that Dumbledore was not still sitting in front of him. In a panic, he looked around, only to spot Dumbledore returning with a mug of something warm. It was...

"Cocoa, my dear boy. Drink up. It should help, I think." And it did, filling Sam up with a rare feeling of warmth. Now, however, Sam had some questions of his own.

"So, I suppose you are... not a senile half-awake headmaster puppet?"

"I should very much hope so, Mister Wright."

"But then..." Suddenly, the copious absence of the headmaster throughout the year seemed incredibly suspicious. "Why weren't... you..."

"Around?" Dumbledore helpfully suggested. "Perhaps you were wondering why I didn't, perhaps, descend from the heavens and chase the rather unfortunately named Dolores Umbridge from the Hogwarts grounds, no doubt to wild applause from the assembled Hogwarts faculty and students."

"Yes!"

"Ah... The hope and optimism of youth... It is something to be treasured. That spirit will do you well."

"What spirit?"

"To believe, in the end, that everything will be fine if good people try their hardest- that is a rare gem indeed. Perhaps you are a reader, by any chance?"

This was the first time anyone in the Wizarding world had even noticed.

"How did you know?"

"Very few Wizarding children express that sort of optimism, I'm afraid. Most carry certain, shall we say, inborn biases towards the current system. Fewer still see change as a possibility. And of those, even fewer see it as a path of their own."

"But what does that have to do with-"

"All in good time, Sam. All in good time."

For a brief second, wizard and child stared at each other, and Sam realised what the unknown quantity he had seen at the beginning was. Sadness. Or, more accurately, resignation.

"Certainly, if I were to enlist the help of some of my more loyal teachers, those who recognise the true value of education beyond a tool of indoctrination, such an act of rebellion would undoubtedly be feasible. And certainly, to the children within the castle, it would be momentary respite. But what of it?"

"What of it? We get rid of Umbridge, of course!"

It was then that Dumbledore's kindly smile gave way, and his gaze turned chilling, and utterly terrifying. "Perhaps, Samuel, we would be rid presently of an unpleasant figure. But tell me, Samuel, do you know the power of the Ministry? What, from your history of reading, would they do next?"

"I... I mean..." Suddenly, the plan of kicking Umbridge out seemed ridiculously childish to even Sam. "They... They would..."

And then he realised his mistake. "They would send someone even worse, to take care of everyone who fought against Umbridge."

And like that, the terror was gone, replaced by a deep melancholy. "Indeed. I, too, long for the days when a personal grievance was the cost of ending a reign of terror. You have, by now, no doubt heard of Grindelwald, and my great battle with him. Perhaps you did not know that he was an old friend of mine."

"An old friend?"

"Certainly. He was brilliant, charming... Wizards of a certain disposition are naturally drawn to each other. But I digress. Umbridge is not Grindelwald. The power we face, the power we must destroy... It cannot come by force. Although I dare say I would be more than a match for the forces of Fudge and his Auror office, at what cost? We would be branded traitors, criminals. The forces of Malfoy and the ancient pureblood houses cannot be defeated by spells or wandwork. As Snape would no doubt agree, the foolish wizard who relies on his wand to solve all his problems will be undone by his wand. In real life, alas, unlike fiction, there is no grand climax, no ultimate evil who can be defeated in some epic duel of the ages after a long and gruelling war."

"So... what? Are we just supposed to surrender? Give up?"

For a split second, Sam thought he saw a twinkle in the eye of Dumbledore. Then it was gone.

"For heavens sake, Sam, no. Why else do you think I gave you the password?"

"What?"

"The password, Samuel. Lemon drop."

"But it was the Sorting Hat-" And then he realised.

"You were the Sorting Hat's voice?"

A laugh, surprisingly clear for a man of his age. "For heaven's sake, no! My voice, I'm afraid, would not stand the beating seventy or so anxious First Years would put it through. The Sorting Hat and I, you see, did have an agreement, before it- well, he, was taken away, to try, as he put it, to identify those who possessed something... extraordinary."

"Hold on... The Hat was sentient?"

"Oh, yes."

"But then, why did Umbridge speak through the Hat? I just thought it was a sort of loudspeaker-ish thing..."

Dumbledore's face darkened, as if a storm were gathering behind those eyes. "There are certain cruelties that are spoken of with great trepidation in this world, Sam, curses that can rend soul from body and bend others towards your will. But worse still are the cruelties that remain unspoken, either out of fear or ignorance. The Sorting Hat is very much alive, Samuel, in the sense that it contains a mind, or portions of it, and senses. Perhaps one day, the true meaning of the Hat, and its history, will be revealed to you- but for now, we must continue."

"Um... alright, Professor Dumbledore. So, what was the Hat looking for?" Sam felt a weird sort of excitement inside of him. There was something that he was chosen for. That he and Hermione and maybe even the Gryffindors had some sort of special purpose, some part to play to take down the evils of the Ministry. It gave him more confidence than he had found in a long time.

"Some call it wisdom. Others call it ambition. Still others call it loyalty. And some call it courage. Those children who will not submit blindly. Those who had the capacity to recognise a better future, and work towards it. In short, those who are capable of learning. I've often suspected that we sort too early, but, alas, I am unable to prowl the halls, as my colleague Severus does so very effectively, in search of candidates. So we must make do."

"But what are you choosing them for? What is the goal of all this?"

"Help at Hogwarts will always be offered to those who ask, Samuel. If these children, bewildered and frightened, can recognise their innate ability to question and to doubt, then the key becomes of use. You saw Severus' reaction. Then, of course, they are told the meaning of their quest, and the ultimate answer to their curiosity, and their education may begin."

Dumbledore, it seemed, was building up to some sort of revelation. "So what is the meaning? What is the answer?"

A long pause, during which Dumbledore smiled kindly at Sam.

"The answer, " he said slowly, "Is that there is no answer."

Disappointment. Anger. Doubt. Was Dumbledore actually senile all along? Was this some sort of cruel joke?

"Headmaster, I'm afraid I don't understand..."

"Then you are in good company, Samuel. Long have I asked myself, how may this current predicament be solved? Once, were I younger, I would have know for certain my answer. But now, I am older, and perhaps slightly wiser, and I know to doubt definite answers. I only know this- True change can only come from within."

Silence.

"So you can't help at all?"

"Alas, I am hamstrung by the twin burdens of age and wisdom. Old men are naturally suspicious of the follies of youth, and with good reason. Alas, I can only hope that you do not abandon your quest for change, that you grow and try to affect change from within society itself. Perhaps one day, you will find yourself in the same position as Umbridge, and be given an ability to change the world for the better. You are the future, after all. Now, finish your cocoa."

Sam hadn't even realised it, but his cocoa was growing cold as the talk dragged on. With a flick of his wand, it became pleasantly warm once more.

"If anyone asks, Sam, please do say you were in the dungeons with Snape. I believe veiled allusions to blood-sucking quills are in order. Now, however, I must ask you to take your leave, and I shall go back to my daily session of drooling- really, quite a refined art, if you do it properly." A small smile. But Sam wasn't done.

"One last question, Headmaster. Where are the Gryffindors now, exactly?"

One more mysterious look. "That will come in the morning, dear boy. Now, good night." With an air of finality, the doors swung open.


	36. Return to the War Room

It's night. Samuel Wright tosses and turns fitfully in the comfy room. Above him, Neville sleeps quietly, his face frowned with worry beyond his years. The howls of strange creatures do not reach this cellar, but an atmosphere of fear pervades in its stead. Samuel cannot stop thinking about his meeting with the headmaster. Even the greatest wizard of the age was helpless, though it was at least reassuring that the seemingly insane headmaster was... fully functioning? Was that the word? He could continue to ponder in silence, as the moon edged its way across the darkened sky.

The next morning, the Gryffindor table was still empty. A lone owl, clearly confused, dropped a scroll on the empty table, waited around for someone to give it a knut, then left, dejected. Sam picked it up.

THE DAILY PROPHET

Muggleborns ruled as legally distinct from Wizards - WIZENGAMOT NEWS

Why the Wizengamot ruling is the correct next step for our nation - OPINION

Call them what they are: Mudbloods - OPINION

Public opinion now in favour of separating Muggleborn and Wizarding children - PUBLIC AFFAIRS

Ministry accidentally releases pro-"Blood purity" statement - MINISTRY NEWS

And so it went on. Feeling dejected, Samuel turned to Neville, and stuffed the paper in his hands.

"What?"

"Just... look at it. In a few months, the badge may be the least of our problems."

"What can we even do?" Neville shot a look at the high table, where Umbridge, in the place of Dumbledore, was reading the same newspaper with something that seemed like a smile but lacked the requisite humanity. He hushed his voice. "She... SHE's already won. The common room is empty. I checked. Even the secret room is-"

And then it hit him.

"The war map!"

Standing up abruptly, Sam burshed aside Neville as he rushed towards the Ravenclaw table. Hermione, looking equally dejected, was picking at a pancake without much enthusiasm.

"I've got it!"

"What?"

"I know how to find the Gryffindors. But first, I need to find a way back into the war room thing in the common room. Did you memorise the timetable for all of the different entrances?"

"Well- well, yes, but.. How did you know?"

"You're Hermione. It seems like the sort of thing you'd do. We need to get back in." She blushed, but Sam was already somewhere else, even as his legs carried him out of the Great Hall.

 **Night**

"I think it's here. It's Wednesday and the central staircase is missing the seventh step so..." Hermione, her face in shadow, pointed from the safety of a dark alcove at a seemingly blank stretch of wall. Next to her, Neville huddled in the corner, while Sam, pressed against the edge of the small alcove, peered out at the wall.

"Are you sure?"

"If the magic still works, then as long as our names are on the register, we can go in. The common room door should be for initiates only."

"Initiates?"

"New people, basically."

"Okay, I trust you. Let's go."

Surprisingly, Neville took the lead, ginerly pressing his hand against the wall. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." He murmured under his breath, his skin pale in the spellbinding white light of the moon, peering through the windows, illuminating and exposing our heroes. Then the wall swung back, and the group stole into the abandoned war room.

The once bustling hall was empty, the parapets and hamocks unoccupied, the chairs scattered haphazardly. The bannisters had been torn down, the bookshelves scattered, the floor littered with scorch marks. The Gryffindors had not gone down easily.

"Someone must have tipped off Umbridge, somehow. A turncoat." Sam reasoned under his breath. But Neville was ahead of him.

"Uh oh."

"What?"

Neville was standing, next to a stricken Hermione, in front of the central table. Sam walked over. One of its corners had been cut off, and the edges were chipped and cracked from the scorch of curses and near misses. But most importantly, the map, the map which showed the locations of everyone at Hogwarts, was missing, pins scattered across the empty void in the middle of the table.

"They took it."

"Who took it?" Said a voice from behind them. Hermione gave a yelp, and Sam turned, wand ready. Next to him, he felt Neville shift as his wand came out as well.

"Show yourself! We're armed!" Sam shouted, with more confidence than he actually felt.

"Hold up, hold up! Don't fire!" From beneath one of the collapsed bookshelves, Sam saw a limping figure, robes tattered, pick himself out from a pile of books. He looked terrible- His face was streaked with grime, flaming hair made grey with dust, wand looking worse for wear- wait- red hair?

"...Ron?" Hermione was aghast.

For a long while, the stranger was silent. Then he nodded, before crumbling and collapsing onto the floor.


End file.
